ENRY 

AND 


; i ! f.H: 111  ; ! ! 


MER  HANCOCK 


HENRY  BOURLAND 


•"A  child's  toy  house  it  seemed,  from  the  heights." 


HENRY  BOURLAND: 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  CAVALIER 


BY 

ALBERT  ELMER  HANCOCK 
II 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

LONDON :  MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LTD. 
1901 

All  rights  reserved 


COPTBIGHT,   1901, 

BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Nortooofc  ^rtgjj 

J.  8.  Gushing  &  Co.  -  Berwick  &  Smith 
Norwood  Masi.  U.S.A. 


mil 


ntg  jfatijer 


991261 


FOREWORD 

A  QUARTER  of  a  century  has  passed  since  the  Civil 
War,  and  the  era  of  reconciliation  has  come  with  the  new 
generation  and  the  judgments  of  impartial  historians. 
This  book  is  an  endeavor  by  one  bred  in  the  North  to 
write  sympathetically  the  annals  of  a  Virginia  family, 
and  to  show  how,  amid  the  conditions  following  the  war, 
it  was  impossible  for  the  wealthy  planters  to  recover  their 
status  upon  the  old  basis.  In  its  broader  aspect  the  story 
is  a  symbol  of  the  extinction  of  the  Southern  aristocracy 
and  their  ideals  and  traditions  as  social  forces.  The  scene 
is  localized  in  Virginia,  but  the  events  give  a  composite 
picture  of  what  took  place  in  the  South  at  large  during 
the  years  of  the  Reconstruction.  In  one  sense  the  narra 
tive  is  fiction ;  but  in  another  and  truer  sense,  for  most 
of  the  incidents  have  warrant  in  fact,  it  is  a  history  of 
general  conditions  turned  into  the  concrete.  Other  books 
have  been  written  on  this  subject;  but  no  Northern  writer 
of  fiction,  so  far  as  I  know,  has  gone  out  of  his  own  en 
vironment  and  has  taken  up  the  case  of  the  Southerners 
for  the  purpose  of  learning  and  writing  absolutely  from 
their  point  of  view.  I  have  here  tried  to  see  and  feel 

everything  with  the  eyes  and  prejudices  of  the  cavalier 

vii 


viii  FOREWORD 

and  the  advocate  of  the  lost  cause.  Such  an  attitude 
does  not,  of  course,  tell  the  whole  story  ;  but  it  does  put 
one  in  sympathetic  touch  with  the  other  half  of  it.  And 
that,  I  am  sure,  is  a  great  help  in  the  search  for  the 
truth.  Long  ago  Daniel  Webster  said  that  if  the  two 
sections  only  understood  each  other,  there  would  be  no 
conflict.  It  is  the  essence  of  tragedy  that  often  we  can 
understand  only  after  the  clashing  of  arms. 

A.  E.  H. 

PHILADELPHIA,  1901. 


CONTENTS 

BOOK  I 
THE  HOUSE  UPON  THE  ROCK 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.     The  Firing  on  Fort  Sumter 1 

IT.     A  Family  at  Home 8 

III.  The  Portraits  of  the  Ancestors 17 

IV.  A  Town  Meeting 25 

V.    The  Cavalier  rides  out  to  War 32 

BOOK   II 
THE  PRISONER  OF  WAR 

VI.    The  Battle  of  Gettysburg 40 

VII.    In  the  Valley  of  Death 52 

VIII.     A  Romance  in  a  Hospital 60 

IX.     A  Lover  and  a  Sphinx    .......  69 

X.    The  Prisoner  fails  to  escape 77 

BOOK   III 
LOVE  AMONG  THE  RUINS 

XI.    Lee  at  Appomattox 84 

XII.     The  Return  to  Bourland  Hall         .....  94 

XIII.  A  Problem  in  Assets,  Liabilities,  and  Losses         .        .  102 

XIV.  The  Privilege  of  Margaret      .        .        .        .        .        .110 

XV.     The  Brides  of  Life  and  of  Death 119 

ix 


CONTENTS 


BOOK  IV 
THE  PROBLEM   OF   CALIBAN 

CHAPTER 

XVI.  The  Reconstruction  Policy 

XVII.  The  Coming  of  Parker,  the  Carpet-bagger 

XVIII.  The  Beginning  of  the  Levelling  Process  . 

XIX.  The  Alienation  of  the  Blacks 

XX.  A  Consequence  of  the  Levelling  Process 


PAGK 
128 

136 
144 
152 
161 


BOOK   V 
A  MEMBER   OF   THE   OLD   GUARD 

XXI.  Parker  makes  known  his  Purpose    . 

XXII.  By  the  Fireside         ...".. 

XXIII.  Parker  heaps  Coals  of  Fire 

XXIV.  A  Light  goes  out 

XXV.  Beaten  down 


169 
177 
183 
191 
198 


BOOK  VI 
UNDER  THE  BLACK  FLAG 

XXVI.  A  Stranger  attends  a  Vendue  . 

XXVII.  The  Old  Dragon  in  his  Den      . 

XXVIII.  A  Carpet-bag  Legislature  in  Session 

XXIX.  From  Arcadia  to  the  County  Jail     . 

XXX.  The  Rescue  from  the  Law 


207 
216 
225 
233 
240 


BOOK  VII 
THE   RETURN   OF  THE  BOURBONS 


XXXI.     A  Link  of  Little  Importance 
XXXII.     The  Awakening  and  the  Call 


247 
254 


CONTENTS 


XI 


CHAPTER 

XXXIII.  Behind  Closed  Doors 

XXXIV.  A  Visitation  of  the  Ku  Klux    . 
XXXV.  The  Pot  and  the  Kettle  are  both  Black 


PAGE 

263 
269 
276 


BOOK  VIII 
THE  OPENING  OF  A  CAREER 

XXXVI.  Elsie  reappears 

XXXVII.  Agrarian  and  Progressionist     . 

XXXVIII.  Another  Christmas  at  the  Hall 

XXXIX.  A  Man-trap  and  a  Man     . 


XL.     Two  Crises  in  One  Day 


283 
292 
299 
306 
316 


BOOK    IX 
THE   RISE   OF  THE   READJUSTERS 

XLI.  Suggestions  of  Several  Possibilities . 

XLII.  A  School  of  Politics  and  its  Master . 

XLIII.  In  the  Confessional 

XLIV.  Out  of  the  Mouth  of  Babes      . 

XLV.  Integer  Vitae,  Scelerisque  Purus 


325 
331 
338 
348 
356 


BOOK  X 
THE  PASSING  OF  THE  CAVALIER 

XL VI.  Father  and  Son         ..... 

XLVIL  The  Law  of  Gravity          . 

XLVIII.  The  Vigil  of  the  Cavalier 

XLIX.  About  Stars  and  Meteors .... 

L.  Farewell  to  Bourland  Hall 


363 
371 
379 
389 


EPILOGUE      .  407 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 


"  A  child's  toy  house  it  seemed,  from  the  heights  "         Frontispiece 

FACING   PAGE 

"  His  mother  and  his  sister,  who  were  sending  him  forth  to 

fight  for  them  with  heart-breaking  Godspeed  "  .        .        .38 

" '  Why,  what  a  romantic  rebel  you  are  ! '  she  broke  out  de 
risively  "          ..........      66 

"  '  I  couldn't  fight  any  more  after  this  '  " 88 

"  She   stood   leaning  against  a  pillar,  and  looking  hopelessly 

out  toward  the  placid  mountains  in  the  west"          .         .       96 

"  *  Aunt  Eleanor  says  I've  been  bad,  and  must  report '  "         .     248 

"  <  Get  me  a  bucket  o'  watah,'  he  sez,  jes  holler  like  ez  ef  he 

wuz  a  dead  mans  ".........     272 

"  Through  the  doorway  he  saw  Parker,  his  hat  on  his  head, 

his  hands  in  his  pockets,  looking  at  the  family  portraits  "     400 


xiii 


BOOK  I 
THE  HOUSE  UPON  THE  BOOK 


CHAPTER  I  '*  £ 

THE   FIRING   ON  FORT  SUMTER 

BEFORE  daybreak,  on  the  12th  of  April,  1861,  the  hush 
of  Nature's  peace  brooded  over  the  fair  lands  of  Virginia. 

The  sun  rose  lazily  while  the  east  was  a  gorgeous  con 
fusion  of  vermilion  and  shimmering  gold.  The  mist  began 
to  dissolve  in  the  warm  breath  of  the  south  wind,  and  the 
denser  masses  of  cloud  drifted  with  the  upper  currents 
of  air  toward  the  north.  Two  hours  after  dawn  the  sun 
shone  down  from  the  clear,  candid  glow  of  the  sky,  and 
the  glare  of  the  light  awoke  the  drowsy  sluggards  in  the 
village  of  Bray  ton. 

Through  the  diaphanous  vapor  which  still  lingered  along 
the  ground,  the  church  spires,  the  town  hall,  the  clustered 
houses,  gleamed  with  the  iridescence  of  opal.  The  trees 
gave  the  jewel  a  setting. 

Brayton  lies  along  the  banks  of  a  stream  that  sweeps  a 
few  miles  below  into  the  James.  And  this  stream,  the 
Lacamac,  marks  the  line  where  the  tidewater  lands  begin 
to  slope  up  toward  the  jagged  bastions  of  the  Blue  Ridge. 

A  bird  of  passage  saw  in  the  country  below  a  vast 
mosaic  of  color ;  fields  and  woodlands,  patches  of  ploughed 
furrows,  flecks  of  spring's  yellow  and  green,  blotches  of 
stubble  and  fallow  land ;  and  interlacing  all,  with  sinuous 
threads,  the  rusty-hued  roadways  and  tawny  watercourses. 

When  the  town  clock  struck  nine  there  were  many  signs 

B  1 


2  HENRY   BOURLAND 

of  life  in  the  valley.  A  locomotive  screamed  along  the 
foothills  and  silenced  its  own  echoes ;  oxen  were  dragging 
clumsily  at  the  plough ;  slaves,  watched  by  Argus-eyed 
overseers,  were  harrowing,  planting,  hedge  trimming,  or 
clearing  the  pungent  fields.  Near  the  village  a  gang  of 
men,  lazily  laborious,  were  repairing  the  ramshackle  bridge. 

At  this  hour  the  gentlefolk  were  beginning  the  day. 
Over  at  Rockingham  a  young  farmer  was  dressing  with 
solicitous  care  ;  it  was  his  marriage  morning,  and  his 
relatives  at  Leeds  were  preparing  to  entertain  the  bride 
during  the  honeymoon.  A  planter  from  Cameron  was 
riding  into  Bray  ton  in  search  of  a  runaway  slave.  The 
Cravens,  of  Karlan.  Hall,  accompanied  by  the  pomp  of 
postilion  and  outrider,  were  dashing  along  on  a  ceremonial 
visit  to  their  neighbors  at  Larchmont  Manor.  Indeed,  on 
this  bright  April  morning  the  people  of  Virginia,  at  work 
or  at  pleasure,  were  planning  and  performing  —  endeavor 
ing,  like  the  rest  of  the  world,  to  make  life  worth  the 
living. 

Beneath  the  surface,  however,  there  were  volcanic 
rumblings. 

Late  in  the  forenoon  a  young  man  rode  on  a  well- 
groomed  horse  over  the  Lacamac  bridge  into  the  town. 
His  age  was  near  twenty-five ;  by  the  length  of  his  stir 
rups  one  would  say  that  he  was  tall  —  six  feet  at  least. 
His  hair  was  black,  his  complexion  dark  but  pure,  and 
there  were  some  finely  chiselled  lines  in  his  profile.  Yet 
his  eyes  caught  and  held  the  attention  ;  for,  in  spite  of  a 
genial  kindliness  of  countenance,  they  suggested  a  phos 
phoric,  inflammable  nature  ;  they  flashed  fire  —  such  sparks 
as  the  blacksmith  hammers  from  his  anvil. 

His  body  took  the  graceful  motion  of  his  horse  without 
the  apparent  exertion  of  a  muscle. 

As  he  rode  along  through  the  main  street  he  spoke  to  a 
score  of  acquaintances  at  least ;  and  the  affability  of  his 
greeting  softened  the  dignity  of  his  bearing  like  grace 
notes  slipping  into  a  stately  theme. 

In  front  of  the  Court  House  green  he  called  to  a  negro 
lad. 


THE   FIRING   OK   FOKT   SUMTER  3 

"  You,  Tom  !  Come  here.  I  owe  you  something.  How 
much  is  it  ?  " 

"I  dunno,  Mars'  Henry,"  the  boy  replied  with  mushy 
accent. 

"  You  young  scamp,  you  know  it's  only  a  nickel.  You 
think  by  not  knowing  you'll  get  a  dime  out  of  me,  don't 
you  ?  " 

"  Ya-a-s  s'r,"  he  admitted,  stupidly  honest  in  his  roguery. 

The  rider  tossed  a  dime  to  the  ground,  and  ordered  the 
boy  to  go  wait  for  him  at  Vinton's. 

He  went  to  the  post-office,  and  afterward  made  some 
purchases,  —  a  box  of  imported  tobacco  for  old  Ebenezer's 
birthday,  a  yard  of  yellow  ribbon,  and  a  bottle  of  sprain 
liniment,  at  his  mother's  request,  for  a  slave  girl  who  had 
wrenched  her  ankle. 

Arriving  a  few  minutes  later  at  Vinton's,  he  dismounted, 
gave  the  horse  Scot  a  caressing  pat,  and  handed  the  bridle 
to  the  lad  in  waiting. 

He  entered  the  lawn  through  an  iron  gateway  overgrown 
with  honeysuckle.  The  atmosphere  was  redolent  of  spring 
blossoms  and  the  vapor  of  dew.  A  crab-apple,  one  soft 
profusion  of  pink,  cast  a  gauze-like  tint  upon  the  grass,  and 
gave  to  the  senses  a  feeling  that  was  too  glorious  to  be  mere 
ease.  It  made  one  wistful.  In  the  background  there  was 
a  comfortable  brick  house,  covered  with  ivy,  on  the  porch 
of  which  a  young  lady  sat  reading. 

He  walked  slowly  up  the  path,  stealthily  almost ;  but 
the  girl  heard  his  steps,  and  looked  up  from  her  book. 

"  Good  morning,  Miss  Elsie."  He  stopped,  hat  in  hand, 
in  an  attitude  of  deference. 

"  Good  morning,  Mr.  Bourland,"  she  replied,  with  a 
pleasure  that  spoke  in  the  flush  of  her  cheeks. 

"I  am  Hermes  to-day.  I  bear  a  message."  He  held 
forth  a  note. 

"  Won't  you  stop  awhile  ?  " 

"  It  would  be  impossible  to  do  otherwise,"  he  returned, 
bowing  low,  with  an  exaggeration  of  courtesy. 

The  note  was  read  quickly. 

"  Tell  Eleanor  I  shall  be  glad  to  come.     I  was  hoping 


4  HENRY  BOURLAND 

she  would  send  down  for  me  this  week.  You  know  I 
never  refuse  an  invitation  to  the  Hall,  particularly  in 
springtime.  Don't  you  remember  last  year  ?  " 

"Yes,"  he  answered  carelessly.  "What  are  you 
reading?" 

"Oh!  it's  only  poor  'Uncle  Tom's  Cabin.' ' 

"Elsie!"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  sudden  rise  in  tem 
perature;  his  eyes  showed,  if  not  anger,  the  first  phase, 
irritation. 

"Sir!  "     There  was  a  haughty  drawl  on  the  last  letter. 

"You  know  that  book  is  an  insult  to  my  father  and 
yours,  and  to  your  country."  His  temperature  was  rising 
higher.  "  It  is  an  infamous  libel.  We  ought  to  ignore 
such  a  book  in  contempt." 

"But  it  won't  poison  me,"  she  protested.  "Anyway, 
you  read  it  yourself."  The  glint  of  her  eyes  enforced  her 
argument. 

He  saw  that  he  was  hanging  himself  in  his  own  logic. 
He  bit  his  lip  with  vexation ;  but  she  came  to  the  rescue 
with  an  act  which  betrayed  her  feeling  for  him.  She 
picked  up  the  book  and  flung  it  three  yards  away  on  the 
floor. 

"I  won't  finish  it,  if  you  don't  want  me  to  read  it. 
It's  a  stupid  book,  after  all,"  she  said,  yielding  a  skirmish 
which  she  had  already  won,  and  looking  down  abashed  in 
her  blushes. 

Somehow  he  didn't  enjoy  this  sort  of  victory;  he  loved 
to  assert  himself,  to  dominate,  but  this  little  skirmish 
with  its  willing  surrender,  suggested  an  undesirable  re 
sponsibility. 

"I  had  no  right  to  speak  so,"  he  added  apologetically. 

He  meant  that  as  a  safeguard,  a  refusal  of  the  responsi 
bility ;  but  she  took  it  as  a  tidbit  of  masculine  tenderness. 

They  talked  about  trifles  for  half  an  hour,  and  then, 
after  promising  to  ride  down  the  next  afternoon  to  escort 
her  to  B  our  land  Hall,  he  rode  away. 

A  group  of  idlers,  sitting  in  the  shadow  of  the  railroad 
station,  who  were  whittling  pine  boards  and  talking  poli 
tics,  caused  him  to  rein  in  his  horse ;  of  all  the  good  things 


THE   FIRING   ON   FORT   SUMTER  5 

in  this  world,  Bourland  enjoyed  most  a  political  argu 
ment. 

And  there  never  was  in  American  history  a  more  preg 
nant  moment  for  such  discussions.  Lincoln,  a  man  of 
untested  genius,  had  just  been  inaugurated,  and  many 
men,  judging  him  as  a  mere  politician,  doubted  the  sin 
cerity  of  his  inaugural  address.  To  most  people  in  the 
South,  he  seemed  a  scout,  who,  with  false  pretences,  was 
leading  the  unwary  into  the  ambush  of  the  abolitionists. 
In  Virginia,  however,  there  was  a  strong  inclination  to 
support  him  in  his  endeavor  to  preserve  the  Union. 

A  man  who  had  whittled  his  shingle  into  the  shape  of  a 
tomahawk  was  stoutly  defending  the  President's  character. 

"What's  the  use,  Sandy,"  he  urged,  as  with  a  single 
slash  he  cut  the  handle  of  the  tomahawk  in  two,  "  what's 
the  use  of  slinging  mud  at  a  man  on  mere  suspicion  ?  He's 
our  chief;  and  I  say,  back  him  till  he  proves  himself  a 
hypocrite.  When  a  man  stands  on  the  Capitol  steps  in 
Washington,  and,  in  the  face  of  the  whole  country, 
declares  he  doesn't  intend  to  interfere  with  slavery,  I 
don't  reckon  he  means  that  he  will.  At  any  rate,  give 
him  the  benefit  of  the  doubt." 

The  man  Sandy  (he  had  put  his  pine  board  aside) 
squared  around  to  his  opponent,  and  with  eyes  that  flashed 
the  certainty  of  a  logical  triumph,  raised  his  index  ringer 
as  a  gesture  for  point  one. 

"  Listen  to  me,  and  shut  up  till  I  get  through.  Lincoln 
hates  slavery,  doesn't  he?  Nobody  denies  that.  And 
there's  going  to  be  a  rumpus;  that's  just  as  certain,  ain't 
it?  Now,  when  the  fight  comes,  you  don't  suppose  he's 
going  to  sit  on  the  White  House  porch,  a-smoking 
Havana  cigars  and  drinking  mint  juleps  in  the  shade, 
do  you?  He's  got  to  take  sides,  one  way  or  another,  and 
you  don't  suppose  he'll  go  with  the  South  for  slavery,  do 
you?  Answer  me  that." 

"That's  right,  Sandy,  lay  it  on,"  cried  Bourland,  get 
ting  down  from  his  horse.  "  They  voted  us  down  in  this 
county  the  other  day,  but  we'll  get  the  best  of  it  before 
long.  Give  him  a  dose  of  states'  rights  and  John  C.  Cal- 


6  HENRY   BOURLAND 

houn."  He  spoke  genially  enough  on  the  surface,  but 
behind  his  words  there  was  a  venom  that  bit  like  acid. 
"There's  no  use  talking,"  he  added,  unconsciously  assum 
ing  the  attitude  of  an  orator,  "you  can't  have  peace  and 
security  in  the  house  while  there  are  sneak-thieves  about. 
Look  at  John  Brown  and  his  land  pirates ;  just  think  of 
them." 

"  But,  Mr.  Henry,"  said  the  Union  man,  with  deferential 
reserve,  "didn't  the  government  string  him  up  in  a  tight 
collar?" 

"  Suppose  it  did.  What  are  the  Yankees  up  North  doing 
to-day,  but  making  pilgrimages  to  his  grave,  and  vowing 
vengeance,  as  though  he  were  a  saint  and  a  martyr !  They 
are  only  waiting  for  a  pretext  to  fight,  and  by  the  Lord 
we'll  give  them  one  before  long,  the  meddlesome  shop 
keepers  !  "  There  was  bitterness  in  his  words,  and  his 
half-closed  eyes  concentrated  more  keenly  the  glitter  of 
his  passion. 

"  Oh !  I  hope  we  Virginia  folks  can  keep  the  peace  a 
while  yet,  as  we  have  done  so  long,"  protested  the 
Unionist. 

"  'The  gentleman  may  cry  peace !  but  there  is  no  peace, ' ' 
continued  Bourland,  quoting  from  an  old  school  declama 
tion.  "4  The  war  is  inevitable.  Let  it  come!  I  say,  let 
it  come ! '  Those  deathless  words  are  just  as  applicable 
to-day  as  they  were  when  Patrick  Henry,  our  great  Vir 
ginian,  uttered  them  within  the  sacred  walls  of  St.  John's 
church,  one  hundred  years  ago." 

Some  of  the  idlers  began  to  clap  their  hands.  The 
applause  was  of  that  half-jocular,  half-serious  kind  which 
comes  from  an  audience  too  small  to  give  the  effect  of 
great  enthusiasm. 

There  was  in  this  scene  something  typically  Southern. 
Many  of  the  men  there  had  voted  a  few  days  before  in 
town  meeting,  instructing  their  delegates  at  Richmond  to 
stand  by  the  Union;  for  at  this  phase  of  the  crisis  Vir 
ginia  was  decidedly  conciliatory;  nay,  more,  pronouncedly 
against  secession.  But  scarcely  a  man  in  the  group  was 
free  from  the  influence  of  this  young  aristocrat  and  of  his 


THE   FIRING   ON   FORT   SUMTER  7 

family  prestige.  They  paid  him  a  peculiar  measure  of 
deference  because  he  was  the  son  of  John  Bourland,  and 
the  grandson  of  Henry  Harlan  Bourland,  and  gave  promise, 
in  his  own  person,  of  becoming  worthy  to  bear  that  name. 
It  was  a  survival  of  feudal  leadership  in  the  nineteenth 
century. 

During  the  silence  which  ensued,  the  ticking  of  the 
telegraph  instrument  was  distinctly  audible.  Suddenly 
the  operator,  behind  his  wire  screen,  gave  a  yell. 

"Great  Scott!  here  is  news!  " 

Everybody  turned. 

"  Bombardment  —  Fort  Sumter  —  begun  — four  o'clock  — 
—  this  —  morning. " 

The  words  came  singly ;  the  crowd  rushed  to  the  window. 

"  Anderson  —  refused  to  surrender  —  Beauregard  opens 
fire  from  Fort  Moultrie.  Fort  Johnson — joins  —  attack. 
Flag  shot  down  twice.  Surrender — expected  —  hourly." 

One  man  cried  out  the  word  "traitors,"  but  in  the 
excitement  no  one  heard  him. 

"  Bells  —  St.  Michaels  —  St.  Phillips  tolling  —  Streets  of 
Charleston — full  of  people  —  singing  '  Dixie  Forever. ' ' 

"That's  all,"  said  the  operator,  leaning  back  in  a  daze 
and  breathing  in  gasps. 

"Hurrah!"  shouted  Bourland,  throwing  his  hat  into 
the  air.  "Bah!  the  Yankees'll  never  fight.  They  are 
afraid  of  their  shekels."  He  began  to  whistle  "Dixie," 
mimicking  at  the  same  time  a  negro  walking  for  a  prize 
cake. 

"Come  on,  boys  !  Gray  jackets  over  the  border!"  he 
shouted,  waving  his  hat,  as  he  gave  word  to  his  horse  and 
galloped  away. 


CHAPTER  II 

A    FAMILY   AT    HOME 

ON  the  following  afternoon  Miss  Vinton,  accompanied 
by  her  squire,  dashed  out  of  the  village  of  Brayton.  They 
plunged  into  the  obscurity  of  the  covered  bridge,  and  the 
lady,  refusing  to  check  the  pace,  whipped  her  horse,  and 
galloped  out  into  the  light  ahead  of  him. 

"You'd  never  make  a  cavalryman,"  she  said  taunt 
ingly. 

"  I  am  going  into  the  infantry,"  he  replied,  unresponsive 
to  the  banter. 

"  Will  you  let  me  ride  Scot  when  you  are  gone  ?  "  The 
brisk  ride  tinted  her  face  with  vermilion  dyes ;  the  wash 
of  air  made  it  glow  with  warm  joy. 

"  Perhaps, "  he  answered,  with  the  irritating  inattention 
of  one  thinking  about  remote  things. 

The  vermilion  paled  slightly;  the  girl  jerked  her  horse's 
head  petulantly,  and  the  two  rode  on  in  silence. 

In  the  distance,  firmly  set  upon  a  high  ledge  of  rock, 
Bourland  Hall,  with  its  white  columns  and  low-lying 
wings,  glimmered  among  the  trees.  The  road,  inclining 
upward,  ran  through  the  meadow-lands  until  it  was  hid 
in  a  long  archway  of  maples. 

Elsie  rode  a  few  yards  in  advance.  Bourland  looked  at 
her  thoughtfully  as  she  sped  on,  raising  a  cloud  of  dust, 
which  the  sun  flashed  into  the  golden  brilliance  of  an 
aureola. 

A  killdee,  with  plaintive  cry,  darted  across  the  space 
between  them;  its  voice  suggested  a  human  distress. 

Bourland  put  spurs  to  his  horse  and  overtook  her.  She 
averted  her  face  wilfully. 

"  Elsie  I "  But  the  familiar  name  and  the  tone  of 
conciliation  were  of  no  avail. 

8 


A  FAMILY   AT   HOME  9 

"Elsie,"  he  repeated,  "what  are  you  thinking  about?" 

"Of  how  many  red   strawberries    grow  in   the   sea." 

There  was  an  impudent  toss  of  the  head  and  a  pout  of 

the  lips,  which  made  the  answer  fascinatingly  perverse. 

He  rode  closer,  and  bent  toward  her. 

"  Tell  me  not,  sweet,  I  am  unkinde 

If  from  the  nunnery 
Of  thy  chaste  breast  and  quiet  mind 
To  war  and  arms  I  fly." 

The  words  were  certainly  the  most  gracious  of  peace 
offerings ;  but  the  trace  of  the  mock-heroic  in  his  voice  was 
a  flat  defiance  flung  at  her  pouting  lips. 

She  knew  the  rest  of  the  stanza,  and  she  reined  up  for 
him  to  continue ;  but  as  he  did  not,  she  whipped  her  horse 
and  dashed  ahead  once  more. 

They  came  to  the  cross-roads,  where  the  parish  church, 
covered  with  creeper  and  moss,  was  almost  hid  in  a  copse 
of  willows.  The  arched  windows,  flaming  in  the  sunlight, 
flung  back  the  radiance  of  brazen  shields.  Deeper  in 
shadow  lay  the  churchyard,  mottled  with  headstones  and 
tablets;  above  them  a  gray  atmosphere,  heavy  with  the 
hush  and  solitude  of  unbroken  peace. 

A  few  furlongs  more  of  open  air  and  sunshine,  and  the 
riders  entered  the  long  arcade  of  trees.  On  both  sides  the 
fences  were  laden  with  honeysuckle  and  clambering  wild 
grape  ;  beyond  stretched  acres  and  acres  of  sprouting 
wheat  and  tobacco.  The  patter  of  the  hoofs,  as  the  horses 
galloped  into  the  twilight,  broke  the  stillness  like  the 
beating  of  drums.  Robins,  come  with  spring,  fluttered 
out  of  the  grass  and  took  flight  to  the  fields. 

By  the  roadside  stood  the  smithy,  the  fief  of  Theophras- 
tus,  the  plantation  blacksmith.  From  within  resounded 
the  cheery  tinkle  of  hammer  and  anvil,  and  through  the 
window  came  the  gleam  of  red  and  yellow  flames  that 
paled  into  blue  and  nothingness  in  the  weird  interior. 

An  old  negro  appeared  in  the  doorway. 

"Good  evenin',  Marse  Henry,"  he  said,  bowing;  then, 
seeing  the  lady,  he  ducked  still  lower,  but  very  clumsily. 


10  HENRY   BOURLAND 

"  'Rastus,  the  war's  begun,  and  the  Yankees  are  coming 
down  to  set  you  free,"  shouted  Henry,  gayly. 

"Dose  Yanks  bettah  stay  tuh  hum  an'  mine  dere  own 
mush  an'  kittle  bilin',"  he  groAvled. 

"I  think  'Rastus  could  knock  out  both  Greeley  and 
Garrison  on  the  stump,  don't  you?"  said  Bourland  to  his 
companion. 

"Are  you  sure  we  can  win?  " 

He  smiled  patronizingly.  "Sure?  I'd  wager  Scot 
against  a  rabbit  skin.  The  Yankees  won't  fight  long-, 
they  can't  keep  their  hands  out  of  business  long  enough  to 
carry  a  musket.  They  don't  know  how  to  shoot,  anyway." 

The  great  crisis  obscured  their  petty  differences,  and 
slipped  in  as  a  truce  between  them. 

Soon  they  came  to  the  quarters,  the  cabins  of  the  field 
hands ;  two  parallel  lines  of  brick  boxes,  each  with  its  one 
room,  projecting  chimney,  and  four  square  windows. 
Morning-glories  trailed  over  the  walls.  Bandannaed 
Dinahs  curtsied  in  the  doorways;  pickaninnies,  gam 
bolling  under  the  trees  like  monkeys,  turned  large  white 
eyes  upon  the  riders,  and  ran,  chattering  arid  pushing, 
after  the  horses.  At  the  end  of  the  quarters  stood  two 
higher  and  larger  houses,  one  the  infirmary,  the  other  the 
home  of  the  overseer. 

An  old  darky  with  a  gray  beard  of  corkscrew  curlings 
hobbled  down  the  steps  of  the  infirmary  into  the  road. 

"Here,  Eb,  here's  what  I  promised  you.  I  forgot  to 
give  it  to  you  yesterday."  He  flung  down  the  imported 
tobacco.  "  How  many  years  old  are  you  ?  Ninety-nine  ?  " 

"Tank  you,  young  massa;  no,  sah,  on'y  sebenty-fo'h, 
sah."  He  hobbled  back  to  show  the  gift  to  two  other 
recuperating  negroes  on  the  porch. 

A  few  rods  farther,  up  a  steep  pitch,  a  turn  to  the 
right,  and  Bourland  Hall  was  revealed  in  the  foreground 
of  a  picture. 

It  was  a  stately  home,  built  from  an  architect's  design, 
and  with  the  added  charm  of  a  history.  The  land  upon 
which  it  stood  was  a  ledge,  a  natural  shelf,  several  hun 
dred  feet  above  the  valley.  It  commanded  views  of  long 


A  FAMILY  AT   HOME  11 

range  to  the  north,  west,  and  south,  while  on  the  east  it 
was  backed  by  the  slope  of  a  mountain.  The  Indians,  in 
former  times,  had  used  the  ledge  as  a  lookout  and  a  signal 
station;  and  there  still  remained  memorials  of  Indian 
camps  in  the  neighborhood. 

In  the  reign  of  James  I.  the  patent  for  three  thousand 
acres  of  land  had  been  granted  to  a  younger  son  of  the 
Bourland  family,  but  the  tract  remained  untenanted  until 
after  the  battle  of  Naseby,  in  1645,  when,  fearing  the 
vengeance  of  the  Rump  Parliament,  Charles  Bourland 
left  his  estate  in  the  weald  of  Kent,  and  emigrated,  with 
his  family,  to  his  Virginia  lands  on  the  Lacamac.  He 
bought  assent  to  his  title  from  the  Indians  with  fifty 
blankets,  a  case  of  axes,  and  six  ploughs,  and  he  smoked 
the  peace  pipe  with  them  under  an  old  oak  that  still  stood 
upon  the  lookout.  There,  generation  after  generation, 
increasing  in  honors  and  wealth,  the  family  remained. 
Just  before  the  Revolution,  William  Bourland,  the  fifth 
in  the  American  line,  conceived  the  idea  of  building  an 
imposing  mansion  on  the  ledge ;  he  drew  up  his  plan  and 
ordered  his  slaves  to  manufacture  the  bricks. 

The  central  portion  was  almost  completed  when  the 
Revolution  brought  the  ambitious  purpose  to  a  sudden 
halt.  But  in  the  next  generation  the  building  was  fin 
ished,  according  to  the  original  design,  by  Henry  Harlan 
Bourland,  who  added  the  wings  and  the  connecting  cor 
ridors.  John  Bourland,  the  seventh  inheritor  of  the  title, 
was  now  the  master  of  hall  and  estate,  which  embraced 
something  over  two  thousand  acres  of  land,  and  employed 
one  hundred  and  fifty  slaves.  He  was  one  of  the  richest 
and  most  influential  planters  in  Virginia. 

Bourland  Hall  was  a  majestic  specimen  of  colonial  archi 
tecture  in  the  classical  manner.  Broad  stone  steps  led  up 
to  the  entrance.  The  fagade  of  the  main  building,  capped 
with  a  triangular  roof  projecting  like  a  visor,  and  pierced 
by  the  symmetrical  windows  and  the  strikingly  hospitable 
breadth  of  doorway,  was  partially  concealed  by  four  huge 
Doric  columns  that  rose,  gigantic  in  strength  and  stature, 
from  the  level  of  the  portico.  On  each  side,  fifteen  feet 


12  HENRY   BOURLAND 

distant,  and  joined  by  the  passageways,  were  the  two 
wings  —  plain,  square,  and  regular. 

It  suggested  to  the  stranger  the  council  chambers  and 
capitol  of  a  miniature  republic.  Severe,  stately,  substan 
tial,  it  was  built  to  stand,  and  it  stood  upon  its  massive 
foundation  of  rock,  a  defiance  to  time. 

"Are  you  glad  to  be  at  the  Hall  again?"  asked  Bour- 
land,  as  they  rode  through  the  stone  gateway. 

"I  don't  know  whether  I  am  or  not,"  she  answered 
frankly.  "  I  think  you  are  just  too  vexatious  for  anything. 
I  don't  understand  you  at  all." 

"I  don't  think  I  do,  either.  Perhaps  going  off  to  war 
is  the  best  thing  for  me." 

"Oh!  "  she  exclaimed,  and  the  simple  utterance  might 
have  meant  a  dozen  things. 

They  were  so  busied  with  themselves  that  they  did  not 
notice  the  rare  beauty  of  the  lawn ;  the  lone-standing  oaks, 
the  chestnuts,  and  tulips,  grouped  in  sixes,  and  some 
times  in  sevens ;  the  sweep  of  verdure,  spotted  by  beds 
of  syriiigas,  hydrangeas,  and  huddled  profusions  of  rose 
trees  ;  the  granite  boulder,  which,  in  some  prehistoric 
time,  had  rolled  down  the  mountain-side;  the  solitary 
myrtle  beside  it,  needing  only  June's  wooing  to  blush 
like  a  maiden;  the  spring-house,  white  walled,  with  mossy 
roof,  in  whose  interior  a  spring  bubbled  up  into  the  dim 
atmosphere,  and  then  flowed,  under  a  rustic  bridge,  to  the 
pond  below.  It  was  a  landscape  in  which  an  artist  had 
given  only  a  few  suggestions  to  Nature. 

Hearing  the  approach  of  the  riders,  the  father,  mother, 
and  daughter  came  out  to  receive  the  guest. 

Eleanor  Bourland  was  just  reaching  the  end  of  her 
second  decade.  She  was  almost  tall.  A  pallor  of  coun 
tenance,  a  translucence  of  skin,  gave  to  her  face  a  spiritual 
delicacy.  A  stranger's  first  impression  would  be  that  her 
nature  was  reserved,  shy,  timid ;  but  strength  of  character 
spoke  out  of  the  violet  depths  of  two  loyal  eyes. 

"I'm  so  glad  you  came,"  she  said,  descending  the  steps 
to  greet  her  friend.  "  Did  you  have  a  pleasant  ride  up  to 
the  Hall?" 


A   FAMILY   AT   HOME  13 

"  No,  —  not  at  all.  Henry  was  so  taken  up  with  fighting 
that  he  had  to  begin  by  fighting  with  me." 

"Well,  then,"  put  in  Henry,  "I  have  begun  very  badly, 
for  I  was  badly  beaten." 

After  the  girls  had  gone  in,  John  Bourland  called  his 
son  aside. 

He  was  a  man  of  distinction,  every  inch  of  him ;  smooth 
faced,  heavy  browed,  tall,  and  straight  —  as  straight  as 
the  Doric  column  beside  him.  The  black  silk  stock  and 
the  black  broadcloth  suit  added,  in  appearance,  five  years 
to  his  actual  three  score. 

"What  is  the  last  report?  Hush!"  he  whispered, 
pointing  toward  his  wife. 

"Sumter  has  surrendered,"  the  son  answered,  with  seri 
ousness  ;  a  mood  in  marked  contrast  with  his  reckless  ardor 
of  the  previous  day. 

"Confound  it!  what  a  hot-headed  lot  they  are  down 
there  in  Charleston.  There  is  no  retreat  now,  I  fear." 

"Fear?"  answered  the  son.  "What  do  you  mean? 
The  despatches  say  the  Gulf  States  are  wild  with  delight. 
What's  the  odds,  father?  It  is  bound  to  come  sometime; 
a  few  years  will  not  matter." 

The  old  man,  leaning  against  the  column,  was  shaking 
under  the  stress  of  emotion. 

"I  hoped  I  should  not  live  to  see  it." 

A  sweet  voice  aroused  them  both. 

"  Won't  you  tell  me  ?     I  want  to  share  it  with  you." 

She  had  quietly  slipped  upon  them,  and  had  put  her 
hands  upon  their  shoulders. 

It  was  an  unforgettable  face.  Hair  white  as  floss  silk; 
eyes  beaming  devotion  from  a  countenance  made  tender 
by  wrinkles  and  fine  veins;  a  voice  that  trembled  from 
failing  health,  from  the  strain  of  years.  She  was  a  wife, 
a  mother,  the  mistress  of  a  hundred  dusky  children,  the 
uncomplaining  servant  of  a  thousand  duties.  A  painter 
in  the  eighteenth  century,  say  Sir  Joshua  or  Romney, 
would  have  drawn  her  as  the  Mother  of  Love,  courageous, 
weary. 

The  two  men  looked  at  each  other,  but  the  father  spoke. 


14  HENKY   BOUELAND 

"It  has  come  at  last.  Fort  Sumter  has  surrendered, 
and  the  war  is  begun." 

She  turned  without  a  word,  walked  to  an  arm-chair, 
and,  dropping  her  face  into  her  hands,  she  broke  into 
quiet  weeping. 

Henry  crept  up  to  her  and  touched  her  softly  on  the 
cheek.  She  looked  up,  fearfully,  and  the  rays  of  love 
through  the  tears  were  glorified  like  light  from  a  gem. 

"And  you  will  go?" 

"Yes,  mother,  I  will  go." 

"I  could  not  ask  you  to  stay,"  she  said  bravely.  He 
bent  over;  she  kissed  his  forehead  and  whispered,  "You 
shall  go  in  God's  name." 

The  day  was  melting  into  twilight.  The  dome  of  the 
sky,  brushed  by  a  drift  of  shimmering  patches  of  lambs' 
wool,  hung  brooding  above  —  an  immeasurable  sweep  of 
lucent  sapphire.  Off  toward  the  south  some  wandering 
clouds  flung  rose  tints  from  their  fringes ;  while  the  mists, 
creeping  up  the  mountains,  drew  their  robes  .over  the  hush 
that  slumbered  among  the  pines.  Deep  in  the  sunken 
depth  of  the  west  the  sun  shot  up  a  few  last  pulsations 
of  golden  radiance,  and  then,  withdrawing  his  tints  of 
gorgeous  hue,  left  the  earth  to  the  solemn  vigil  of  the 
stars. 

A  quail,  hid  among  the  trees,  warbled  his  plaintive  call 
for  "Bob  White." 

Down  in  the  valley  the  stretches  of  field  and  woodland, 
as  the  night  fell,  resigned  their  form  and  feature,  and  glim 
mered  beneath  the  obscuring  veil  of  the  darkness.  Out 
of  the  gathering  gloom  twinkled  the  lamps  of  Brayton  — 
a  constellation  of  earthly  lights. 

The  three  sat  upon  the  veranda,  silent  as  the  silence 
of  the  nightfall. 

Within,  the  girls  had  descended,  and  Eleanor  was  play 
ing  upon  the  piano.  It  was  an  old  church  hymn,  that  of 
the  militant  marching  to  their  final  triumph.  Some  Eng 
lish  musician,  whose  soul  had  been  stirred  by  the  solitude 
of  a  dim  old  cathedral,  had  touched,  in  a  moment  of 
inspiration,  the  chords  that  voice  the  lyrical  cry  of  the 


A  FAMILY   AT   HOME  15 

servants  of  the  church  after  the  years  of  battle  for  right 
eousness'  sake.  Henry  awoke  from  a  re  very  to  find  that 
he  was  humming  the  words  — 

"  Ten  thousand  times  ten  thousand, 
In  sparkling  raiment  bright." 

The  music  unclosed  the  eyes  of  his  inward  vision;  he 
saw  a  white-robed  procession,  marching  slowly,  steadily, 
triumphantly  up  the  stony  steeps  to  the  resplendent  gate 
ways  of  pearl;  and,  as  the  multitude  moved  onward,  the 
strains,  at  first  with  laborious,  irregular  effort,  broke  forth 
at  last  into  a  crescendo  of  jubilation  and  victory  — 

"  Fling  open  wide  the  pearly  gates 
And  let  the  victors  in." 

The  player  within  was  under  the  spell  of  the  martial 
spirit.  Bourland  began  to  think  of  the  crusaders,  and  to 
liken  their  cause  to  his  own;  for  it  was  invested  with 
holiness,  and  called  for  devotion  and  service.  The  ideas 
that  stood  behind  it  he  had  heard  from  his  boyhood,  from 
lips  that  he  reverenced,  even  from  the  ministers  in  the 
churches.  He  had  learned  the  principles,  too,  from  states 
men  who  were  held  in  universal  honor.  Once,  when  a 
small  child,  he  had  heard  the  great  Calhoun,  in  his  clear 
voice  of  almost  feminine  sweetness,  speak  upon  the  doc 
trine  of  states'  rights.  At  the  close  of  that  speech  his 
boyish  brain  glowed  with  admiration ;  he  realized,  as  by 
revelation,  the  meaning  of  logic.  The  experience  made 
an  indelible  impression  upon  him,  and  had  colored,  like  a 
dye,  all  his  later  thinking. 

Yes,  he  was  a  Southerner,  heart  and  soul;  and  now  that 
events  had  forced  the  crisis,  he  was  ready  to  fight  for  the 
integrity  of  the  political  institutions  that  had  nurtured 
him,  that  had  been  bequeathed  to  him  by  his  ancestors  as 
a  heritage. 

He  was  disturbed  in  his  meditations  by  the  gentle 
approach  of  the  mother.  She  put  her  arms  about  his  neck 
and  drew  him  close. 


16  HENRY   BOURLAND 

"My  boy,  my  only  boy,"  she  murmured,  "how  can  I  let 

you  go?" 

"But  you  must,  mother.     It  is  my  duty." 

It  was  now  quite   dark.      The  stars,   prompt  for  the 

night  watch,  had  taken  their  posts  in  the  sky. 


CHAPTER   III 

THE  PORTRAITS   OF   THE  ANCESTORS 

THE  picture,  on  the  next  evening,  as  the  Bourlands  and 
their  guest  sat  around  the  table,  would  have  aroused  the 
enthusiasm  of  Rembrandt. 

A  high  room,  wainscoted  in  oak,  with  mullioned  win 
dows  ;  a  buffet  in  mahogany ;  a  fireplace,  on  the  mantel  of 
which  stood  two  silver  candelabra  ("  presented, "  the  host 
occasionally  informed  a  visitor,  "to  my  grandfather,  in 
'69,  by  the  Duke  of  Pemberton,  who  spent  the  shooting 
season  here  ");  on  the  walls  game  pictures  in  steel,  a  pair 
of  antlers,  and  two  swords  crossed  behind  a  shield.  In  the 
centre  of  the  table  stood  a  shaded  lamp,  which  threw  a 
strong  light  on  a  sweet  ham  drenched  with  Madeira  and 
other  delicacies,  and  which  toned  the  illumination  down 
to  the  chiaroscuro  of  the  Dutch  master. 

A  negro  butler,  in  green  broadcloth,  served  the  table. 

The  alarms  of  war  had  brought  to  the  elders  a  mood  of 
funereal  quietude ;  and  Eleanor,  too,  was  sober  and  medi 
tative.  Henry  and  Elsie,  however,  rattled  and  prattled  at 
each  other  with  thoughtless  levity :  he,  pursuing  a  vein  of 
banter;  she,  affecting  an  arch  perversity. 

The  two  that  morning  had  taken  a  cross-country  ride, 
and  she  had  returned  sparkling  like  a  sunbeam  among  the 
ripples  of  a  stream.  To-night  she  was  thoroughly  happy, 
radiant. 

"I  think  I  shall  ride  over  to  Lexington  to-morrow," 
Henry  suddenly  announced. 

"Oh!  let  me  go,  too,"  Elsie  pleaded  eagerly.     She  felt 
herself   to   be   a  daughter  in   the   house,   and   therefore 
privileged.     Eleanor  had  been  her  playmate  from  earliest 
childhood,  and  John  Bourland  was  her  godfather, 
c  17 


18  HENRY   BOURLAND 

"  Oh,  pshaw !  "  replied  Henry.  "  I'd  have  to  leave  you 
there,  for  you  couldn't  stand  the  ride  back." 

"Who  took  the  Burtons'  untrimmed  hedge,  I'd  like  to 
know,  when  a  man  had  to  go  around  through  the  gate  ?  " 
she  retorted. 

"It  was  certainly  a  woman;  a  man  would  have  had 
more  regard  for  his  horse." 

More  such  tit-for-tats,  pleasantly  acrimonious,  passed 
across  the  table. 

"What  do  you  want  to  go  there  for,  Henry?"  his 
mother  inquired  fearfully. 

"  Governor  Letcher  is  up  from  Richmond.  I  want  to 
get  from  him  the  promise  of  my  commission  in  the  army 
and  authority  to  get  recruits." 

This  sounded  like  energetic  action;  it  came  like  a 
shock.  A  tenseness  contracted  the  lines  about  the  mother's 
lips.  The  father  spoke,  after  a  short  silence,  with  decisive 
bluntness. 

"  I  want  to  see  you,  Henry,  after  supper,  in  the  library." 

The  seriousness  of  his  tone  quenched  all  ardor  for  further 
prattle. 

"The  Dresden  service  to-night,  Azariah,"said  the  mis 
tress  to  the  butler.  And  he  brought,  with  much  solici 
tude,  the  precious  china  from  the  closet,  and  afterward  the 
steaming  tea  urn. 

Even  the  tea  could  not  induce  a  social  mood.  The 
father  arose,  and  the  son  followed  him  across  the  hall  into 
the  library,  while  the  ladies  remained  to  wash  with  their 
own  careful  hands  the  dainty  tea  service. 

The  walls  of  the  library  were  lined  with  books ;  legal 
volumes  in  sheepskin,  the  English  poets  and  essayists 
in  half  calf,  a  set  of  Ree's  Encyclopaedia,  bound  volumes 
of  the  Southern  Literary  Messenger.  American,  English, 
and  French  magazines  were  in  evidence  on  table  and  shelf. 

The  son,  in  an  attitude  of  filial  respect,  waited  for  the 
father  to  open  the  conference. 

"I'm  glad  to  see  a  change  in  your  mood,  Henry,"  he 
said.  "  The  first  day,  at  the  prospect  of  war,  you  were 
boyishly  exultant  and  hot-headed;  but  later  you  began 


THE   PORTRAITS   OF   THE   ANCESTORS         19 

to  reflect  and  to  realize  the  awful  seriousness  of  the 
situation." 

"True,  sir!  And  that  was  only  natural.  But  I  have 
no  change  of  opinions,  or  weakening  of  resolution." 

"Have  you  considered  all  the  consequences?  Just 
think  of  Virginia  in  the  event  of  war;  it  will  be  the 
bloody  field  of  the  struggle,  lying  as  it  does  between  the 
North  and  the  South.  It  will  become  a  human  shambles." 

"Oh!  it's  got  to  come.  It's  got  to  come  sometime," 
the  son  broke  in  with  vigor.  "  And  for  us  the  sooner  the 
better;  for  every  year  the  Yankees  are  getting  stronger. 
Let  us  have  done  with  all  this  bickering  and  ballyragging 
between  the  sections ;  let  us  cut  loose  from  these  Yankee 
fanatics  and  shopkeepers,  and  go  on  our  way,  in  the  paths 
of  our  ancestors.  If  it  must  come  to  a  fight,  and  it  must, 
let  us  quit  talking  and  bragging,  and  fight  like  men. 
We  shall  win ;  I'm  sure  there  is  blood  and  courage  enough 
in  Virginia  to  defend  the  state  from  invasion.  Besides, 
I  think  the  Yankees  will  back  down  and  let  us  go." 

He  made  many  gestures  in  his  eagerness  for  action. 

The  elder  man  bowed  his  head  and  covered  his  face 
with  his  hands,  like  one  at  holy  communion ;  then,  after 
a  moment,  he  lifted  his  face  upward  and  murmured :  — 

"O  God!     Make  us  wise!" 

He  now  took  the  lamp  in  his  hand,  and,  throwing  open 
the  folding-doors,  led  the  son  into  the  next  room.  The 
light  revealed  a  stiff,  spacious  parlor.  The  furniture  was 
of  mohair  and  mahogany,  heavy,  old-fashioned,  and  rather 
scanty.  On  the  wall,  in  frames  of  ebony  and  gilt  rococo, 
bearing  the  signatures  of  Kneller,  Sully,  and  Peale,  hung 
the  family  portraits. 

They  were  a  sober-looking  group  of  men,  full  of  intel 
ligence  and  dignity,  in  military  uniform,  in  the  long 
gown  and  wig  of  the  bar,  in  civilian  broadcloth,  with  high 
black  stocks.  Their  eyes  peered  down  through  the  silence 
upon  the  living  intruders. 

"You  spoke  just  now,  Henry,"  the  father  began,  "of 
our  ancestors,  and  of  our  duty  to  follow  in  their  steps. 
Here  we  are  in  their  presence.  In  one  sense  they  are 


20  HENRY   BOURLAND 

dead;  but  in  another  sense  they  are  alive,  for  they  live 
in  us.  That  man  there  on  the  left,  as  you  know,  was  a 
Knight  of  the  Golden  Horseshoe;  the  one  beyond  was 
killed  at  the  battle  of  Camden ;  your  grandfather  was  the 
friend  of  Washington,  an  intimate  friend,  a  frequent  vis 
itor  to  Mount  Vernon.  This  one,"  and  he  pointed  to  a 
civilian,  "did  more  than  any  one  else  to  prevent  the 
acceptance  by  Virginia  of  the  South  Carolina  Nullifica 
tion;  he  served  his  state;  he  was  also  with  Jackson  at 
New  Orleans.  There,  my  boy,"  pointing  to  a  military 
figure  in  gold  braid,  "there  is  your  uncle  and  my  brother. 
He  fell  under  the  walls  of  Chapultepee.  We  buried  him, 
at  night,  down  there  in  Mexico,  and  his  body  was  wrapped 
in  the  stars  and  stripes.  It  is  the  symbol  of  our  national 
union  and  greatness.  I  have  fought,  too,  for  that  flag. 
I  honor  it,  I  love  it.  And  you,  Henry,  you  applauded 
when  it  was  shot  down  at  Sumter.  You  want  to  help  tear 
it  down  yourself." 

The  young  man  stood  still  with  a  stoicism  that  repressed 
his  ardent  feelings;  for  he  had  been  reared  in  a  knight 
hood  which  demanded  and  obtained  a  reverence  for  the 
fifth  commandment.  But  not  knowing,  by  direct  experi 
ence,  the  emotional  life  that  came  with  the  earlier  days  of 
the  Union,  having  grown  up  in  the  decades  that  were 
embittered  by  sectional  strife,  and,  moreover,  being  by 
temperament  a  modern  Hotspur,  he  did  not  share  in  the 
tragic  dilemma  of  his  father.  He  felt  himself  logically 
secure,  and  his  logic  made  him  aggressive.  When  the 
spasm  of  anguish  in  the  elder  man  had  passed,  Henry 
began  a  cannonade  of  argument. 

"The  times  have  changed,  sir.  Were  these  men  alive 
and  here  to-day,  they  would  stand  resolutely  for  the  rights 
of  Virginia.  The  flag  is  but  the  symbol  of  the  compact 
of  sovereign  states  ;  and  this  flag  has  been  seized  by  a  fac 
tion,  a  political  party,  whose  only  right  is  their  might, 
and  whose  so-called  patriotism  is  only  a  mask  which  con 
ceals  a  despotic  purpose.  They  mean  ultimately  to  inter 
fere  with  us,  to  destroy  the  civilization  of  the  South,  —  a 
social  institution  which  is  ours  by  the  original  compact. 


THE   PORTRAITS   OF   THE   ANCESTORS         21 

They  are  the  real  disturbers  of  the  peace,  the  destroyers  of 
the  Union  and  the  flag." 

John  Bourland,  though  a  lover  of  the  Union,  was  never 
theless  a  planter  and  slaveholder;  he  felt,  therefore,  the 
full  force  of  the  logic. 

"But,"  replied  he,  catching  at  a  possible  reply,  "they 
have  done  nothing  as  yet;  they  have  broken  no  consti 
tutional  law;  they  have  invaded  no  state.  Did  not 
President  Lincoln  declare  in  his  inaugural  address  that 
he  intended  to  maintain  the  Constitution  inviolate, 
particularly  in  regard  to  slavery?" 

The  impatient  son,  tugging  at  the  leash  of  filial  defer 
ence,  broke  out  with  vehemence. 

"Oh!  father,  you  don't  see  the  signs  of  the  times. 
These  abolitionists  have  done  nothing  as  yet  because  they 
have  not  the  power,  and  delay  only  makes  them  stronger. 
As  for  Lincoln,  he  must  be  a  blind  optimist,  a  foolish 
dreamer.  He  talks  of  toleration ;  but  how  can  he  or  any 
other  man  maintain  toleration  when  behind  him  there 
is  a  pack  of  yelping  jackals  eager  and  ravenous  to  feed 
upon  the  dead  body  of  our  institutions  ?  Besides,  is  he 
not  himself  bitterly  opposed  to  slavery?  Did  he  not 
recently,  in  his  Springfield  speech,  say,  with  all  the  viru 
lence  of  Garrison  or  Phillips,  that  slavery  was  radically 
wrong  ?  " 

The  young  man's  face  was  scarlet  with  the  pent-up  zeal. 
He  could  not  restrain  the  impulse  to  clinch  his  argument 
and  silence  his  father's  plea. 

"Answer  me  this,  sir!  Did  not  Lincoln  say,  not  long 
ago,  that  the  Union  could  not  endure  half  slave  and  half 
free?" 

He  raised  his  fist  and  brought  it  down  with  terrific  force 
on  the  open  palm  of  the  other  hand;  the  blow  must  have 
stung  him,  but  he  did  not  feel  the  pain. 

"  If  we  strike  at  all,  we  must  strike  now,  or  in  the  end 
be  ignominiously  crushed." 

The  father  saw  that  he  had  lost  his  case,  and  he  began 
to  prepare  for  a  compromise. 

"I'm  older  than  you,  Henry,  and  I  have  seen  far  more 


22  HENRY   BOURLAND 

of  the  world's  sorrows  and  miseries.  I  know  the  past; 
your  ideas  of  the  future  are  very  uncertain.  South  Caro 
lina  has  been  too  often  a  braggart  and  a  brawler,  and  this 
act  of  the  last  few  days  may  only  result  in  her  humiliation. " 

It  was  a  defensive  appeal. 

"Never,  sir,  never.  This  time  the  whole  South  is 
behind  her.  The  firing  on  Sumter  may  have  been  rash, 
but  it  was  an  act  of  decision,  and  it  was  right." 

Young  Bourland  stamped  his  foot  with  the  assertion. 

"Oh!  Harry,  Harry,  I  realize  in  your  voice  and  in 
your  anger  only  too  well  the  hot  blood  of  the  South.  It 
is  going  to  get  control  of  things,  and  God  only  knows 
where  it  is  going  to  bring  us." 

Two  impulses,  like  Roman  wrestlers  in  the  arena,  were 
struggling  in  the  old  man's  breast  for  the  mastery.  He 
began  to  plead  anew. 

"  Let  us  not  be  rash ;  let  us  wait  a  little  and  go  cau 
tiously.  It  may  be,  I  fear  it  must  be,  that  I  shall  have  to 
join  with  you  in  the  end ;  for  I  will  not  desert  my  state. 
But  before  I  do,  before  I  consent  to  let  loose  the  passions 
of  war  and  hate,  to  bring  the  horrors  of  hell  upon  this 
commonwealth,  this  garden ;  before  I  move  to  haul  down 
the  old  flag  from  its  proud  position  above  us,  I  must  see 
that  there  is  no  way  to  avoid  it.  Let  us  try  reason  and 
conciliation  once  more." 

The  son  saw  he  had  gained  the  victory,  and  his  ardor 
cooled.  He  had  demonstrated  his  proposition,  and  now 
he  added  the  corollary. 

"  If  you  wish  to  be  wise,  you  must  not  reason,  you  must 
act.  These  abolitionists  are  as  unreasonable  as  Turks. 
Just  remember  what  John  Brown  said  the  morning  he 
was  hanged;  his  authority,  he  declared,  came  from  God 
Almighty.  That's  just  where  Mahomet  said  his  authority 
came  from  when  he  wanted  a  sanction  for  burning  and 
butchery.  Don't  you  recall,  too,  that  John  Brown,  before 
his  execution,  refused  to  pray  with  our  minister,  and 
called  him  a  heathen  to  his  face  ?  And  who  is  this  bandit  ? 
Why,  he's  the  hero,  the  martyr  of  the  Yankees;  and  they 
are  singing  to-day  around  his  tomb :  — 


THE   PORTRAITS   OF   THE   ANCESTORS         23 

"*  John  Brown's  body  lies  a-mouldering  in  the  grave, 
But  his  soul  is  marching  on.' 

As  though,  forsooth,  he  were  a  Saint  Louis.  And  where 
is  his  soul  marching  to,  pray?  Why,  right  down  here, 
to  trample  on  our  rights,  to  tear  up  our  plantations,  and 
to  put  my  mother  and  sister,  your  wife  and  daughter,  on 
the  same  level  with  their  black  cooks.  The  Yankees  are 
coming,  too.  Father!  you  talk  of  the  flag;  I  stand  for  the 
preservation  of  our  home." 

The  father  had  no  occasion  to  draw  himself  up  into 
proud  erectness;  he  stood  in  that  attitude  habitually. 
But  he  said,  with  quiet,  pathetic  resolution :  — 

"  I  am  yet  the  head  of  the  house  and  can  maintain  its 
honor.  When  I  am  gone  the  inheritance  will  pass  to  you. 
While  I  am  alive,  however,  no  invader  shall  cross  the 
boundary  of  this  state  and  find  me  passive.  But,  Henry, 
I  cannot,  we  cannot  strike  the  first  blow.  Grant  me  this 
much.  Wait  awhile.  Let  us  not  attack,  let  us  defend." 

Henry  hesitated,  and  then  agreed  to  the  compromise. 

"  Well,  father,  I  will  do  that.  I  will  wait.  But  when 
the  time  comes,  we  shall  act  as  one." 

The  two,  the  old  man  of  the  past,  and  the  young  man 
of  the  future,  both  Southern  in  essence  and  in  love,  clasped 
hands,  and  the  intense  strain  of  the  clasp  was  the  seal  of 
the  compact. 

Unconsciously  they  glanced  at  the  portraits. 

The  room  in  which  they  stood  seemed  to  become  all  at 
once  mysteriously  peopled.  For  a  moment  the  figments 
of  the  imagination,  under  the  illusion  of  the  feelings, 
obscured  the  sense  of  reality.  There  upon  the  wall,  dimly 
perceived,  hung  those  portraits  of  the  dead,  gazing  fixedly 
at  the  living.  The  time,  the  place,  the  dramatic  incident, 
linked  that  moment  with  the  far-reaching  years  and  deeds 
of  the  past,  and  conjured  the  ancestral  guardians  of  the 
spot,  so  silent  there  in  their  antique  frames,  to  come  once 
more  to  life,  and  to  speak.  But  the  fancy  soon  gave  place 
to  the  fact.  The  painted  faces  retained  their  inert  sto 
lidity,  and  looked  down,  as  they  had  looked  for  years,  upon 
the  occasional  scenes  of  family  affection,  social  hilarity, 


24  HENKY   BOURLAND 

or  funereal  grief,  without  sanction  and  without  reproof. 
Yet  the  spirits  of  the  dead  ancestors  were  there ;  not 
cribbed  beneath  slabs  of  marble,  nor  confined  within  the 
unbroken  silences  of  vaulted  tombs;  but,  through  the 
genius  that  descends  from  the  fathers  unto  the  sons,  they 
dwelt  in  the  chambers  of  immortality,  in  the  deep,  inscrut 
able  depths  of  the  souls  of  the  living,  and  their  voices 
whispered  a  faint  "  Amen !  " 


CHAPTER   IV 

A   TOWN  MEETING 

THE  rain  during  the  night  had  brought  a  renewed  fresh 
ness  to  the  air;  and  the  winds,  playing  with  a  musician's 
touch  upon  the  trees,  had  shaken  down  the  bud  scales 
until  the  ground  was  a  fairyland  of  pink  and  white.  The 
faint  odor  of  blossoms,  the  damp  exhalations  of  grass  roots 
and  mould,  the  delicate  aroma  of  the  sap,  oozing  every 
where  from  the  swollen  branches,  filled  the  atmosphere 
with  that  sweet  irritation  which,  in  the  springtime,  stirs 
the  senses,  intoxicates  the  imagination,  and  prompts  a 
lover  to  dream  of  his  absent  lady  and  to  build  his 
unsubstantial  castles  in  Spain. 

Miss  Elsie  was  unhappy.  The  glory  of  that  April 
morning  was  no  solace.  The  nectar  of  spring,  brought 
without  stint  by  every  breath  of  the  wind,  —  an  offering 
to  appease  the  most  wrathful  of  Junos,  — •  carried  no  balm 
to  her  vexation  of  spirit.  She  was  disappointed.  A 
slight  pout  on  the  lips  told  the  story. 

The  key  to  this  feminine  psychology  was  the  fact  that 
Henry,  after  proposing  a  ride,  had  suddenly  changed  his 
mind  and  had  run  off  to  Bray  ton  for  war  news. 

The  young  lady,  left  alone,  had  fluttered  the  pages  of 
three  books  ;  she  had  rippled  the  piano  keys  to  the  humilia 
tion  of  a  Hungarian  Tanzweise ;  she  had  played  with  Tarn, 
the  woolly  house  pet,  until  she  was  tired  and  the  dog  was 
lame ;  and  now  she  sat  upon  the  veranda  steps,  tearing  to 

Eieces  some  daffodils  which  a  black  youngster  had  brought 
rom  the  pond. 

This  miserable  war  was  spoiling  her  pleasure  and  plans. 
Eleanor  came  out  with  a  sewing  basket  and  sat  down 
in  an  arm-chair. 

25 


26  HENRY  BOURLAND 

"What  are  you  doing,  Eleanor?"  asked  Elsie,  throw 
ing  the  shreds  of  the  daffodils  at  Tarn's  nose,  who  winked 
and  fled. 

"Embroidering  some  handkerchiefs — for  Henry,"  she 
answered,  with  an  embarrassment  that  betrayed  a  thought 
under  cover. 

Elsie  began  to  examine  the  squares  of  linen;  in  one 
corner  were  the  initials,  H.  B.,  and  beneath  the  family 
motto  in  thin  letters,  NE  OUBLIE. 

"Don't  muss  them,  please,"  Eleanor  said  nervously, 
gathering  them  in. 

"Oh,  I  won't  hurt  them.  Why,  what's  this?  these 
aren't  for  Henry.  Oh!  S.  B.  and  the  family  motto,  NE 
OTJBLIE.  Why,  what  cousin  is  this  for?" 

She  looked  up,  and  saw  her  friend's  face  flushing  to  the 
first  tints  of  a  poppy. 

"Why,  Eleanor,"  she  pursued,  "you  never  told  me 
anything  about  it." 

"I  —  I  —  haven't  told  anybody  yet  —  except  mother. " 
It  came  in  words  of  ashamed  exultation.  Little  devils  of 
envy  tormented  the  other's  soul. 

"Is  he  to  be  a  soldier,  too?" 

"I  don't  know;  but  he  must  be  if  he  wants  these." 
This  time  the  timid  voice  was  firm. 

Elsie  had  a  flashing  vision  of  the  motive  that  makes  a 
man  brave;  and  another  —  of  her  own  self-centred  self. 
An  accusing  angel  whispered  something  beneath  the  reach 
of  hearing. 

At  that  instant  John  Bourland  came  out  upon  the  por 
tico,  exclaiming,  "  Here  comes  Harry  at  breakneck  speed." 

All  three  looked  across  the  fields  into  the  valley.  The 
horse  and  rider  were  tearing  along  like  a  racer  neariiig  the 
tape;  they  disappeared  into  the  arch  of  maples  —  and 
then,  after  some  moments  of  suspense,  the  rapid  beating 
of  hoofs  announced  their  approach.  The  horse  whirled 
around  the  curve,  stumbled  up  the  pitch,  and  staggered 
through  the  gateway. 

"They're  coming!  "  shouted  the  rider. 

"Who?"  all  three  broke  out  in  unison.  » 


A   TOWN   MEETING  27 

"The  Yankees.  Lincoln  has  called  for  seventy-five 
thousand  volunteers  to  invade  the  South." 

The  fabled  Gorgon  could  not  have  changed  them  more 
quickly  into  stone. 

"Father,  remember  our  compact.  We  are  to  have  a 
meeting  in  Brayton  this  afternoon  to  take  action." 

Full  realization  broke  the  spell  of  the  sudden  stupe 
faction. 

"I  remember,  my  son.  I  shall  be  with  you."  The 
answer  was  quiet,  restrained.  For  three  days  John  Bour- 
land  had  prayed  to  the  God  of  Peace ;  now  he  must  turn 
to  the  God  of  Battles. 

Fort  Sumter  had  been  bombarded  on  Friday;  it  sur 
rendered  the  next  day.  The  news  of  its  fall  drove  the 
temperature  of  the  whole  country,  North  and  South,  above 
the  boiling-point.  In  Charleston,  the  people  became  hys 
terical  with  enthusiasm.  In  Virginia,  however,  there  was 
a  strong  conservative  sentiment  for  the  Union.  Once 
already  the  state  had  refused  to  secede  and  join  the  Con 
federacy,  and  the  commissioners  of  Virginia,  at  that 
moment,  were  in  Washington,  to  plead  with  the  Presi 
dent  for  peace.  But  the  resolute  Lincoln  sent  them  away, 
after  proclaiming  his  definitive  determination  to  enter  the 
insurgent  states,  to  occupy  the  federal  properties,  and  to 
collect  the  legal  revenues.  Immediately  afterward  he 
published  his  famous  call  for  volunteers  to  suppress  the 
rebellion.  This  prompt  executive  measure  immediately 
crystallized  the  sentiment  in  Virginia,  and  it  gravitated, 
by  natural  law,  to  the  Confederacy. 

In  the  afternoon  father  and  son  rode  down  to  Brayton. 
After  some  debate  they  had  come  to  an  amicable  agree 
ment.  John  Bouiiand,  whose  age  really  incapacitated 
him  for  active  duty,  reluctantly  consented  to  remain  at 
home ;  but  the  son  was  to  enlist  at  once  and  represent  the 
family  in  the  field. 

This  responsibility  aroused  in  Henry  a  new  measure  of 

Sride,  and  he  went  cantering  down  the  road  like  the  Cid 
ampeador  against  the  Moors. 
"  I  forgot  in  my  excitement,  father,  to  tell  you  of  the 


28  HENRY   BOUKLAKD 

skirmish  last  night  up  at  Harper's  Ferry.  The  comman 
dant  evidently  got  scared,  and  he  tried  to  destroy  his  guns 
and  ammunition.  Some  volunteers  stopped  him,  and  he 
ran  over  the  border  to  fast  music.  So  we  score  the  first 
and  the  second  points."  Then  he  added,  "I  don't  think 
the  Yankees  will  make  much  of  a  fight." 

"Don't  make  a  mistake  about  that,  son.  You  don't 
know  them  as  I  do.  I  have  seen  them  fight  in  Mexico. 
Besides  this,  Lincoln  is  an  unknown  quantity  as  yet. 
He  may  surprise  you.  I  think  he  is  a  man  of  nerve  and 
purpose,  in  spite  of  his  jokes." 

The  streets  of  Brayton  were  thronged,  and  every  moment 
the  crowd  increased.  Planters  and  farmers  from  the  out 
lying  districts  filed  in,  bringing  their  wives  and  their 
children.  Squads  of  small  boys  went  parading  up  and 
down  the  main  street,  headed  by  juvenile  chiefs.  Slaves, 
crab-eyed  with  amazement,  stood  around,  watching  their 
masters'  horses.  The  stores  were  closed.  Pedlers  were 
selling  the  Palmetto  rosette.  There  was  a  great  deal  of 
talk,  —  grave  talk  from  the  wise,  and  much  swagger  and 
bluster  from  the  reckless.  The  saloons,  of  course,  were 
centres  of  congestion,  and  through  their  open  doors  came 
forth  a  confusion  of  tongues,  boasting  and  reviling  the 
Yankees. 

The  Court  House  green  became  ultimately  the  chief 
centre  of  gravity. 

The  building  was  of  the  classic  style,  a  miniature  imi 
tation  of  the  Parthenon,  with  whitewashed  walls  and 
Doric  columns  of  brick  rounded  with  plaster.  Bulletins, 
legal  notices,  offers  of  reward  for  runaway  slaves,  were 
pasted  on  the  facade.  The  interior  was  deserted;  the 
meeting  was  to  be  out-of-doors,  and  the  crowd  awaited  the 
tolling  of  the  bell. 

The  Bonrlands  walked  across  the  green,  receiving  nods 
of  recognition,  usually  deferential,  and  they  joined  a 
group  of  excited  men. 

A  man  was  reading  from  a  New  York  paper,  several 
days  old :  — 


A   TOWN   MEETING  29 

"  The  South  in  self-preservation  has  been  driven  to  the  wall,  and 
forced  to  proclaim  her  independence.  A  servile  insurrection  and 
wholesale  slaughter  of  the  whites  will  alone  satisfy  the  murderous 
designs  of  the  abolitionists." 

"What  fire-brand  paper  is  that,  Stevens?"  asked  Mr. 
Bourland. 

"It's  nothing  but  the  truth,  if  John  Brown's  a  speci 
men,"  protested  a  man  named  Dale.  "  I  tell  you,  the  very 
devil  has  got  loose  among  some  of  the  niggers  since  his 
raid." 

"Yes,"  broke  in  a  third.  "Talk  about  freeing  the 
niggers!  good  Lord,  you  might  as  well  open  hell  gate." 

"Of  course  we  can't  permit  that,"  said  Mr.  Bourland. 

Just  then  the  bell  began  to  ring  the  hour  of  assembly, 
and  the  crowd  gathered  around  a  platform  of  boards  set 
upon  trestles.  Mr.  Bourland  had  been  asked  to  preside, 
and  he  mounted  the  elevation,  followed  by  other  repre 
sentative  men, 

He  called  the  meeting  to  order  and  opened  it  with  a 
short  speech.  There  was  a  pause  after  each  sentence,  as 
if  he  were  choosing  with  care  every  one  of  his  words. 

"Fellow-citizens,"  he  began,  "I  speak  to  you  after 
serious  meditation  and  earnest  prayer.  The  breaking  of 
family  ties  is  a  mournful  tragedy,  and  Virginia  is  still  a 
proud  member  of  the  old  family  of  states.  At  this 
moment,  from  causes  known  to  you  all,  the  integrity  of 
our  statehood,  the  permanence  of  our  social  and  political 
institutions,  are  threatened  with  danger;  perhaps,  though 
I  trust  not,  with  destruction.  We  have  sought  to  avert 
the  conflict.  Our  commissioners  have  pleaded  with  the 
government  at  Washington  for  peace;  but  their  efforts 
have  been  vain,  and  they  must  return  to  us  with  naught 
but  their  clear  consciences  and  their  frustrated  hopes  of  con 
ciliation.  This  week  —  to-morrow  —  an  invading  army 
may  cross  our  boundaries.  Our  friends  in  the  South, 
to  whom  we  are  bound  by  the  closest  ties  of  feeling  and 
tradition,  are  calling  us  to  join  them  to  maintain  those 
rights,  — individual,  state,  constitutional  rights,  — with 
out  which  there  is  neither  honor  nor  self-respect.  I  have 


30  HENRY   BOURLAND 

loved  the  Union  and  the  flag;  but  now,  it  seems,  the  two 
sections  have  come  to  the  parting  of  the  ways,  and  if  I 
must  advise,  I  speak  in  sorrow  and  anguish;  but  my  hand 
must  point  toward  the  south." 

He  raised  his  hand  slowly  and  indicated  the  direction. 

The  gesture  from  a  young  man  might  have  seemed 
theatrical.  But  the  aged  face,  the  reserve  of  emotion,  the 
reluctant  decision,  endued  it  with  the  impressiveness  of 
religious  awe.  The  faces  before  him,  for  an  instant,  shone 
with  the  sober  illumination  of  a  consecration  service. 

His  applause  was  a  moment  of  deep  silence. 

A  lawyer  with  conservative  views  followed.  He  be 
lieved  in  states'  rights,  and  he  intended  to  stand  by  his 
own  state.  But  slavery  was  an  indefensible  institution, 
and,  in  attempting  to  maintain  it,  the  South  was  only 
building  a  weak  dam  that  sooner  or  later  would  be  swept 
down  by  the  ever  increasing  tension  of  liberty  and  prog 
ress.  He  begged  for  further  deliberation  and  delay  of 
action. 

Outcries  of  disapproval  greeted  his  remarks,  and  his 
plea  was  as  futile  as  the  notes  of  a  flute  amid  the  resonant 
blasts  of  an  orchestra. 

The  next  speaker  was  a  man  of  vehemence  and  fire. 
He  had  not  come  there,  he  said,  to  deliberate.  He  had 
come  to  act.  He  had  been  in  the  North,  and  had  heard 
the  insulting  harangues  and  boasts  of  the  abolitionist 
demagogues,  flung  at  the  South  from  a  safe  distance. 

"Now  they  say,"  he  shouted,  "that  they  are  coming 
down  here  to  make  good  their  words.  Well,  let  them 
come.  We're  ready.  For  my  part,  I  vow,  by  every  drop 
of  blood  in  my  veins,  that  when  these  seventy-five  thou 
sand  mongrels  cross  the  Potomac,  when  the  men  of  the  Old 
Dominion  go  out  to  meet  them,  I  will  be  in  the  front  rank 
to  drive  every  scavenger  son  of  them  back  to  his  northern 
dunghill."  Pie  stopped  short.  "Mr.  Chairman,  I  move 
we  instruct  our  delegates  at  Richmond  to  vote  for  secession 
immediately." 

It  was  the  old  story  of  the  mobile  vulgus.  The  higher 
instincts,  roused  by  Mr.  Bourland's  judicial  calmness, 


A   TOWN   MEETING  31 

gave  place  to  the  passions  of  hatred  and  revenge ;  and  the 
last  speaker's  brutal  energy  charged  that  body  of  men 
until  it  responded  like  a  nervous  organism  to  the  play  of 
an  electric  battery.  Shouts,  wavings  of  hands,  flying  hats, 
were  faint  manifestations  of  the  frenzy. 

The  speaker  sat  down  in  triumph. 

During  the  excitement  a  messenger  pushed  his  way  to 
the  platform  and  handed  the  chairman  a  telegram.  He 
rose,  and  the  paper,  indicative  of  news,  commanded 
immediate  silence. 

"A  despatch  from  Richmond,"  he  said,  with  voice 
infirm.  "The  House  of  Burgesses  this  morning,  by  a 
vote  of  eighty-eight  to  fifty-five,  passed  an  ordinance  of 
secession." 

The  crowd  broke  and  scattered.  In  twenty  minutes  the 
stars  and  bars  were  floating  from  the  Court  House  flagpole, 
and  a  brass  band,  followed  by  men,  women,  and  children, 
was  marching  up  and  down  the  streets,  playing  "  Dixie  " 
and  the  Southern  "Marseillaise."  Men  were  seized  by 
the  shoulders,  lifted  bodily  up  to  doorsteps  and  barrels, 
and  compelled  to  make  speeches.  Cannon  were  booming 
with  thunderous  echoes.  The  church  bells  were  bellow 
ing  mad  peals  of  war.  Bonfires  were  kindled  in  the 
streets,  and  the  air  was  full  of  powder  and  smoke. 

In  the  meantime,  while  all  this  enthusiasm  was  in  effer 
vescence  and  motion,  Henry  Bourland,  behind  a  plank 
stretched  across  two  barrels,  was  enlisting  recruits. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE    CAVALIER    BIDES    OUT    TO    WAR 

"  OH,  I  'low  you  is  cap'ble  miff,  Mis'  Bourlan',  but  I'se 
his  own  ole  mammy.  You  jes'  lemme  ten'  ter  lookin' 
aftah  his  things.  I'se  a-done  his  sewin'  seiice  befoh  he 
wuz  bawn,  an'  I  reckon  I  kin  get  him  ready  foh  de 
wah." 

It  was  a  protest  from  Ruby,  the  dusky  despot  of  the 
home.  Two  days  before,  a  yellow  envelope  containing 
Henry's  commission  as  lieutenant  in  the  armies  of  the 
Confederacy  had  come  by  post,  and  the  sad-hearted 
mother  had  begun  the  preparations  for  her  son's  depar 
ture.  But  when  Ruby  interposed,  she  resigned  the  task 
reluctantly,  yet  with  a  certain  relief.  For  while  she, 
plied  her  needle,  in  her  mind's  eye  she  saw  continually 
those  garments  pierced  by  a  small  round  hole  and  stained 
dark  red.  The  thought  haunted  her,  too,  that  she  might 
be  preparing  a  shroud. 

At  last  the  evening  came  for  Henry's  farewell.  He 
was  to  ride  down  to  Bray  ton  after  supper  and  join  his 
squad,  which  left  early  the  next  morning  for  General 
Magruder's  camp  at  Newport  News. 

It  was  a  solemn  affair,  that  last  supper  at  home.  John 
Bourland  outwardly  was  calm  ;  the  mother,  by  biting  her 
lips,  checked  several  sobs ;  and  Eleanor,  cherishing  a 
double  fear,  was  silent  with  a  double  pride,  as  she  looked 
at  her  brother  in  his  gray  uniform,  and  wondered  if 
Major  Shirley  Brookfield  wasn't  just  as  handsome  and  as 
noble. 

Elsie  was  still  there.  Doubtless  she  should  have  gone 
home ;  but  she  lingered,  unsated,  like  some  epicure  at  a 
banquet  table. 

82 


THE   CAVALIER   RIDES  OUT   TO   WAR          33 

During  these  last  few  days  Henry's  conduct  toward 
her  had  been  somewhat  enigmatical.  Within  himself  he 
felt  a  mental  burden.  His  mind  was  vexed  with  an  inde 
cision.  He  could  not  cast  her  out  of  his  chamber  of 
desire  entirely. 

She  was  such  a  charming,  stimulating  creature  ;  so  full 
of  vigor,  of  a  power  only  partially  aroused.  There  was  a 
magic  in  her  unconscious  acts  which  stung  his  senses,  and 
made  him  quiver  with  delicious  pain.  And  yet  his  calm 
\judgment  told  him  that,  although  for  several  years  they 
had  been  skirmishing  with  more  or  less  serious  zest,  he 
could  not  ask  her  to  be  his  wife  and  at  the  same  time 
feel  fully  satisfied,  feel  that  he  had  made  no  mistake. 

After  supper  he  asked  her  to  go  out  of  doors  for  a 
ramble  on  the  lawn.  He  had  come  to  a  decision  at  last. 

The  breezes  lay  hushed  in  the  lap  of  languor.  In  the 
far  west  a  new  moon  was  drifting  downward  among  the 
stars.  The  air  was  redolent  of  the  night  dew,  the  essence 
of  withered  blooms,  and  the  gentle  aroma  of  the  pines. 
The  call  of  a  wakeful  bird  gave  to  the  silence  a  note  of 
isolation,  and  filled  the  darkness  with  an  almost  human 
pathos. 

"Well,  I've  got  to  leave  you  all,"  he  said  carelessly. 

44  Oh,  Henry!  "     It  was  a  protesting  cry  of  grief. 

They  were  standing  by  the  stone  wall  that  edged  the 
lawn  like  a  parapet.  The  village  sparkled  in  the  distant 
obscurity. 

The  spirit  of  winsome  perversity  was  gone  out  of  her. 
There  she  stood,  athletic,  in  body,  yet  with  all  her  self 
hood  made  ready  to  resign  itself  to  his  will.  The  dim 
ness  of  the  starlight  hung  around  her  like  a  gauze. 

He  wavered  in  his  resolution.  Perhaps,  after  all,  she 
might  be  his  real  romance  maiden.  If  she  had  come  to 
him  that  night  suddenly  out  of  the  unknown,  he  might 
have  been  drawn  to  her,  as  one,  casually  wandering,  is 
drawn  by  the  sight  of  a  rarity  of  nature. 

But  she  stood  against  the  background  of  the  past. 

And  there,  plaguing  his  vision  of  her, — pestiferous 
insects,  —  hovered  those  trivial  things  which  so  easily 


34  HENRY   BOUKLAND 

destroy  an  enchantment,  which  had,  indeed,  tainted  his 
chivalrous  reverence  for  her.  Ah  !  if  he  could  only  blot 
out  that  one  recollection,  he  might  forget  the  trifles, — 
that  time  when,  entering  a  room  unexpectedly,  he  caught 
her  reading  by  stealth  a  letter,  carelessly  left  about,  from 
another  girl.  That  single  act  had  pricked  the  bubble  of 
his  joy.  It  had  poisoned  his  memory.  He  distrusted  her 
character  ;  he  could  not  ask  her  to  be  his  wife. 

"  We  have  spent  many  happy  days  together,  Elsie,"  he 
continued,  drawing  the  words  slowly. 

She  answered  with  nothing  but  the  upward  turning  of 
a  face  that  became  luminous  with  expectation.  He  strove 
to  repress  a  thrill  of  emotion.  He  meant,  as  gently  as 
he  could,  to  perform  an  unpleasant  duty,  to  close  the 
door  of  his  life  and  leave  her  standing  without.  It  were 
best  to  do  it  now,  before  going  away.  He  should  not  let 
her  cherish  a  delusion.  His  sense  of  honor,  after  their 
past  relations,  told  him  he  must  speak. 

He  paused  a  long  time  searching  for  the  pleasantest 
way. 

"  We  have  been  children  and  playmates  together.  But 
now  the  war  has  come  ;  it  will  take  me  away  and  will 
break  our  comradeship." 

"  But  you  will  come  back  ?  "  She  had  not  yet  divined 
his  meaning. 

"If  I  survive,  of  course.  But  I  shall  be  different ;  so 
will  you.  We  cannot  ever  again  be  the  same.  Our  bit 
of  romancing  had  better  end  now." 

He  meant  to  be  deft,  and  suggest  his  thought  with 
delicate  amenity.  The  words  were  apt  enough,  doubt 
less  ;  but  the  effect  was  spoiled  by  the  nervous  utterance, 
which  enforced  his  meaning  brutally.  They  came  forth 
like  the  wheeze  of  a  pump. 

His  intention,  now  evident,  struck  her  like  a  blow. 
And  the  face  which  was  softened  for  other  confessions, 
was  suddenly  contorted  with  intense  pain.  She  did  not 
have  time  to  think.  She  acted  from  that  inner  prompting, 
the  substance  of  personality,  which  in  unexpected  crises 
unveils  the  real  character.  Her  countenance,  a  moment 


THE   CAVALIER   RIDES   OUT   TO   WAR         35 

before  mildly  radiant,  burned  with  fury  and  belied  the 
sincerity  of  her  response. 

"Romance?"  she  blazed  out.  "You  mean  comedy! 
Do  you  think  I'm  in  love  with  you  ?  Why,  I've  simply 
looked  on  you  as  an  amusement  —  a  pastime,"  she  repeated 
hysterically,  "a  pastime,  that's  all." 

"  I'm  glad  to  hear  that,"  he  replied.  But  in  his  heart 
he  knew  now  that  she  did  love  him,  not  with  mere  affec 
tion,  but  with  a  passion  rare  among  women. 

They  went  back  to  the  house  shortly  afterward;  she, 
attempting  with  ill  success  to  be  jaunty ;  he,  feeling  like 
a  well-intentioned  fool. 

As  soon  as  they  reentered  the  Hall  she  bade  him  good- 
by  and  went  upstairs.  In  the  seclusion  of  her  room,  all 
alone  with  herself,  she  gave  vent  to  a  rage  so  intense  that 
it  was  sublime,  poetic.  It  left  her  physically  weak,  hold 
ing  the  shreds  of  a  handkerchief  in  her  trembling  hands. 

Bourland  was  not  destined  to  see  her  again  for  along  time. 

After  entering  the  house,  he  found  his  father  alone  in 
the  library,  looking  over  some  papers. 

"  My  son,"  said  he,  "  since  I  can't  do  any  fighting,  I'm 
going  to  help  the  cause  in  another  way.  I  purpose  to  sub 
scribe  for  a  large  number  of  Confederate  bonds  ;  but  I  will 
have  to  put  a  mortgage  on  the  estate." 

"  That's  right,  sir.  Everybody  must  help  in  this  conflict. 
I  knew  you  would  do  that." 

He  stood,  very  handsome  in  his  gray  and  gold,  before  his 
father's  admiring  eyes. 

"  I  want  to  take  your  height  before  you  leave,  Henry." 

The  door  jamb  showed  the  marks  of  an  old  family  cus 
tom  —  short  scratches  in  the  white  paint  with  dates  and 
initials.  It  was  the  supreme  court  of  appeals  regard 
ing  family  stature,  and  it  held  the  archives  of  several 
generations. 

Henry  backed  up  against  the  wall,  while  the  elder  man 
notched  the  height. 

"  Not  quite  up  to  your  uncle,  my  boy,  but  two  inches 
above  your  grandfather.  There's  not  one  of  you  who  ever 
got  up  to  me,"  he  said  proudly,  pointing  to  his  mark  at 


36  HENKY   BOURLAND 

six  feet  two.  "  I  think  you  had  better  let  me  take  your 
place." 

"  Oh  !  you  were  mustered  out  years  ago,  sir,"  replied 
the  son,  banteringly. 

"  You  impertinent  scrub,"  the  father  retorted.  "  For 
thirty  years  I  was  the  best  fencer  and  swordsman  in  the 
three  counties,  and,  by  Jove,  I  believe  I  am  yet.  Here, 
you  young  braggart,  take  this  foil  and  defend  yourself. 
I'll  show  you  who  is  mustered  out."  He  went  to  a  closet, 
and  took  out  a  pair  of  foils.  "  En  garde,"  he  shouted 
with  mock  seriousness.  "  I'll  show  you  a  trick  yet." 

They  fell  to  furiously. 

"  Parry  in  quarte,  my  boy.  You've  forgotten  your  first 
principles  ;  then  follow  with  a  riposte.  Hold  !  there,  I 
claim  the  first  point." 

The  old  man's  eyes  sparkled  amid  his  heightening  color. 
He  was  breathing  vigorously. 

"  You  young  fellows  don't  fence  as  we  used  to  ;  it's  a 
lost  art.  Come  on  here,  again,"  he  called,  pressing  for 
ward.  "Disengage!  no,  not  that  way;  cut  under  and 
one,  two  —  there,  a  hit.  I  claim  another." 

On  the  next  attack,  Henry,  by  a  double,  deceived  his 
father's  counter  parry,  and  scored  a  point.  The  old  man 
was  nettled. 

"  Pshaw  !  "  he  cried.  "  That's  an  old  trick.  I'll  show 
you  one  worth  four  of  that.  En  garde." 

By  a  quick  motion  after  a  parry  he  swung  the  foil  in  a 
circle  over  his  head,  throwing  open  his  own  defence,  and 
with  a  lunge  which  his  opponent  could  not  anticipate  he 
struck  Henry  squarely  over  the  heart.  His  face  rippled 
into  smiles. 

"  It's  risky,"  he  ejaculated,  gasping  for  breath.  "  But 
when  it  succeeds,  it's  a  death  warrant.  The  stroke  is  an 
old  French  one ;  they  call  it  4  the  carnation,'  and  it  was 
invented  by  a  duellist  of  the  days  of  Louis  Quatorze.  He 
killed  thirty-seven  men,  I  believe,  and  then  the  poor  fel 
low  had  to  die  in  his  bed.  Dear  me,"  he  added  mus 
ingly,  "  I  thought  I  had  forgotten  it.  I  learned  it  at 
Paris  in  '32." 


THE   CAVALIER   BIDES   OUT   TO   WAR          37 

The  humiliation  of  Henry  was  obliterated  by  his 
father's  satisfaction  and  pride.  "  I  yield,"  he  said,  deliv 
ering  his  foil  like  a  conquered  knight. 

Just  then  the  door  opened  ;  Mrs.  Bourland  and  Eleanor 
pushed  their  way  into  the  room,  cautiously  followed  by  a 
negro. 

"  What's  all  this  rumpus  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  I've  just  been  giving  this  young  swashbuckler 
a  few  points  in  fencing.  Three  to  his  one,  mother  ;  he 
can't  down  the  old  man  yet.  Here,  Sam,  go  down  into 
the  cellar  and  bring  up  a  bottle  of  that  '52  Madeira." 

Sam  came  in  with  the  wine,  which  the  master  poured 
out  with  a  hand  still  trembling  from  the  exercise. 
"  Where's  Elsie  ?  "  he  exclaimed. 

"  She's  gone  to  bed  with  a  headache,"  answered  Eleanor. 

"  You  take  that  glass  then,  Sam,  and  drink  a  toast  to 
the  success  of  the  Confederacy." 

"  Yaas,  sah  !  An'  death  and  damnashun  to  de  Yanks. 
Da's  wat  dey  sez  down  to  Brayton,  sah,"  he  added,  as  if 
the  strong  word  needed  an  apology. 

"  I  drink  to  the  safe  return  of  Lieutenant  Bourland," 
murmured  the  mother. 

While  they  were  drinking  they  heard  the  stamping  of 
hoofs  upon  the  gravel  path. 

"  That's  Jim  with  Scot,"  said  Henry,  putting  down  his 
glass.  "  It's  time  to  go.  Be  brave,  little  mother.  I 
shall  soon  be  back." 

"  God  bless  you,  and  go  with  you  and  guard  you,"  she 
said  with  fervor.  Her  lips  were  cold  with  the  fear  that 
Jeep  affection  brings  in  moments  of  danger. 

"  Don't  you  want  me  to  go  ?  "  he  asked  with  a  smile, 
bending  down  and  looking  into  her  eyes. 

"  Some  mother's  son  would  have  to  take  your  place  ;  the 
Bourlands  can't  skulk." 

"  Keep  face  front,  Harry,"  was  Eleanor's  last  word ; 
then  she  whispered  in  his  ear,  "  If  you  come  across  your 
friend,  Major  Brookfield,  you  can  call  him  brother,  if  you 
wish."  There  was  the  glint  of  water  in  her  courageous 
eyes. 


38  HENRY   BOURLAND 

"  You  rninx !  "  cried  Henry,  "  why  didn't  you  tell  me 
that  before  ?  Here  are  six  for  him."  He  kissed  her 
repeatedly. 

"  Now  don't  worry,  any  of  you,"  he  added  gayly  as  he 
went  out  the  doorway.  "  Worry  won't  stop  a  bullet." 

The  women  stood  upon  the  portico,  while  the  two  men 
walked  down  to  where  a  negro,  dressed  in  his  best,  was 
holding  two  horses  by  the  bridles. 

"  Henry,  my  dear  son,  this  may  be  our  last  time  together. 
If  anything  should  happen  to  me  while  you  are  away, 
remember  that  my  last  charge  to  you  is  to  stand  by  the 
Hall.  You  are  the  last  of  the  direct  line  of  the  Bour- 
lands.  When  you  fall,  the  house  falls.  A  stainless  name 
and  an  ancient  home  are  in  your  keeping ;  don't  let  either 
ever  go  out  of  your  possession.  Remember,  my  boy,  that, 
if  nothing  else,  your  father  canleave  you  an  honored  name." 

"  Don't  fear  for  me,  sir,"  he  answered,  deeply  impressed 
at  the  parting. 

They  clasped  hands  with  a  pressure  that  is  the  sign  of 
strong  men's  love.  The  younger  mounted  his  horse, 
feeling  for  the  first  time  the  full  weight  of  his  responsi 
bility.  It  was  like  a  treasure  that  burdened  the  owner. 

"  Take  good  care  of  Mr.  Henry,  Jim,"  the  mother  called 
out. 

Henry  waved  from  his  saddle  a  farewell  greeting,  and 
gave  rein  to  his  horse  ;  but  after  he  had  gone  a  few  paces, 
he  checked  him.  Eleanor  called  and  asked  if  he  had  for 
gotten  anything. 

"  No  ;  nothing.     I  was  only  taking  a  last  look." 

Thin  sheets  of  cloud  were  drifting  beneath  the  heavens. 
In  the  rear  distance  the  woodland  of  the  upper  hillside, 
now  almost  fused  with  the  darkness,  gradually  slanted  up 
toward  the  summit,  which  bore,  like  a  tiara  of  resplendent 
gems,  the  stars  of  the  Pleiades.  A  brisk  wind  stirred  the 
trees  into  the  droning  hum  of  many  inarticulate  voices. 
In  the  midst,  upon  its  base  of  rock,  its  dimly  defined 
edges  enclosing  the  brighter  outlines  of  cornice  and  win 
dow  and  column,  secure  seemingly  against  the  forces  of 
nature  and  time,  stood  the  old  Hall. 


"  His  mother  and  his  sister,  who  were  sending  him  forth  to  fight 
for  them,  with  heart-breaking  Godspeed." 


THE   CAVALIEK   EIDES   OUT   TO   WAR          39 

It  was  the  symbol  of  an  expiring  social  order,  set  there, 
amid  the  broad-stretching  acres  of  fertile  land,  the  very 
heart  of  a  small,  feudal  community.  It  was  the  visible 
embodiment  of  a  mediaeval  idea  that  still  survived  ;  the 
idea  of  the  divine  right  of  a  master  to  rule,  and  the  divine 
obligation  of  a  slave  to  obey.  The  system  which  it  repre 
sented  had  virtues  which,  amid  human  complexities,  still 
made  for  social  order  ;  but  it  was  fraught  with  horrible 
abuses.  In  the  past  it  had  served  the  world  well,  but 
the  world  had  outgrown  it  in  the  nineteenth  century.  It 
was  an  anachronism  —  this  system  of  slavery  in  a  land  of 
liberty,  and  the  rising  tide  of  freedom  and  human  brother 
hood  was  threatening  its  destruction. 

But  Henry  Bourland,  as  he  rode  away  to  the  war,  was 
not  indulging  in  general  reflections.  He  looked  back  at 
the  stately  mansion,  upon  the  hallowed  playground  of  his 
childhood,  upon  the  scenes  that  had  nourished  the  deepest 
affections  of  his  life.  He  saw  his  home,  to  him  the  most 
sacred  spot  on  earth.  And  now  the  idea  on  which  it  was 
founded,  the  ambitious  efforts  of  the  ancestors  who  had 
built  it,  and  the  laws  of  the  land  that  sustained  it  were 
threatened  with  extinction  at  the  hands  of  predatory  aliens. 
And  his  last  glance,  too,  as  he  turned  for  that  last  look 
from  his  horse,  touched  his  heart  more  deeply,  provoked 
his  courage  more  fiercely,  than  these  dangers ;  for  he  saw, 
framed  in  by  the  doorway,  against  a  background  of  stream 
ing  light,  the  figures  of  two  women,  his  mother  and  his 
sister,  who  were  sending  him  forth  to  fight  for  them  with 
a  heart-breaking  God-speed. 

His  hand  clutched  the  hilt  of  his  sword.  He  put  the 
spurs  to  his  horse,  and  soon  the  watchers  heard  only  the 
rapid  clatter  of  hoofs,  beating  and  echoing  down  the  dark 
avenue  of  trees. 


BOOK   II 
THE  PRISONER   OF  WAR 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE   BATTLE   OF   GETTYSBURG 

IN  June,  1863,  General  Lee,  who  had  recently  beaten 
the  Union  army  in  two  defensive  battles,  made  an  aggres 
sive  move.  Elated  by  his  victories,  and  persuaded  of 
further  successes,  he  planned  a  campaign  to  invade  the 
North,  capture  Washington,  conquer  a  peace  at  the  capi 
tal,  and  establish  forever  the  independence  of  the  Con 
federacy. 

It  was  an  audacious  design,  but  the  temptation  was 
well-nigh  irresistible.  The  Army  of  the  Potomac  was 
demoralized.  Richmond  was  safe  from  attack.  The 
Federal  government,  in  sore  straits,  was  harassed  by  in 
creasing  opposition.  At  home,  the  Copperheads  were 
active  and  virulent ;  abroad,  the  French  emperor  was 
plotting  with  Mexico,  and  threatening  international  com 
plications  ;  while  in  the  English  Parliament,  a  strong 
opposition  was  clamoring  for  British  assistance  to  the 
cotton  states.  At  the  least  count  a  victory  for  Lee  on 
Northern  soil  would  be  followed  by  European  recognition 
of  the  Confederacy  and  the  consequent  gain  of  belligerent 
rights. 

There  was  also  a  tactical  inducement.  In  the  south 
west  Vicksburg  was  menaced  by  Grant,  and  Lee's  diver 
sion  might  save  it  from  capture. 

40 


THE   BATTLE   OF   GETTYSBURG  41 

For  two  years,  Henry  Bourland  had  fought  in  the 
Army  of  Northern  Virginia.  He  was  a  major  now,  hav 
ing  been  repeatedly  promoted  for  signal  bravery.  At 
Antietem  he  led  a  charge,  which,  after  a  hand-to-hand 
struggle,  had  captured  a  Union  battery.  At  Fredericks- 
burg,  with  a  small  force,  he  held  a  bridge  of  vital  stra 
tegic  importance  until  the  close  of  the  battle.  Wounded  in 
this  engagement,  he  was  sent  home  on  a  furlough.  But 
the  joy  of  his  return  to  the  Hall  was  quenched  in  sorrow; 
his  mother  was  no  longer  there  to  greet  him. 

He  was  soon  back  again  in  the  army,  and  when  Lee 
began  his  northern  movement,  Bourland  marched  with 
his  regiment  through  Maryland  and  passed  up  the  Cum 
berland  into  Pennsylvania. 

The  soil  of  the  alien  country,  north  of  the  line,  gave 
strange  thrills  to  his  steps.  At  first  he  was  surprised  to 
hear  the  natives  speaking  precisely  the  same  language. 
The  consciousness  that  he  was  an  invader  gave  him  sen 
sations  far  different  from  those  aroused  in  defence  of  his 
own  land.  His  thoughts,  at  times,  ran  back  to  his  school 
books,  to  Hannibal  descending  upon  Rome,  to  Csesar 
crossing  with  his  legions  into  Gaul. 

The  Confederate  army  broke  up  into  segments  and 
scattered  over  the  country.  A  large  force  moved  against 
Harrisburg,  while  other  detachments  were  ordered  to 
tear  up  railroads,  burn  bridges,  gather  supplies,  kidnap 
negroes,  and  levy  tribute  upon  the  larger  towns. 

Bourland's  regiment  was  on  the  far  western  rim  of  the 
field  of  operations. 

One  afternoon,  while  foraging,  he  stood  in  a  farmer's 
yard,  offering  payment  in  Confederate  scrip  for  some 
cattle  which  his  men  were  driving  down  the  road.  The 
farmer  bitterly  protested  against  such  enforced  legal 
tender. 

"  Oh,"  said  Bourland,  "  our  government  will  soon  be 
redeeming  it  in  gold." 

"  It  will  never  be  worth  its  weight  in  brass,"  angrily 
replied  the  man.  But  he  took  the  paper,  declaring  he 
would  paste  it  over  some  broken  windows  in  the  kitchen. 


42  HENRY  BOURLAND 

Bourland  walked  away.  He  had  no  relish  for  such  busi 
ness,  even  if  the  victims  were  Yankees. 

An  orderly  came  dashing  up  the  road.  He  reined  up 
his  horse,  gave  the  salute,  and  said  impassively :  - 

"  You  are  commanded  to  take  all  your  men  to  Ackerly 
at  once.  Orders  have  come  to  concentrate  with  all  pos 
sible  haste." 

"  Why,  what's  in  the  wind  ?  "  asked  Bourland. 

"  The  Army  of  the  Potomac  is  coming  up  after  us,"  he 
shouted,  already  several  yards  away.  "  Hooker,  they  say, 
has  been  superseded  by  Meade." 

"  Changing  commanders,  eh  ?  "  mused  Bourland.  "  Well, 
that's  bad  —  for  them." 

In  one  hour  his  men  were  on  the  march.  At  nine  o'clock 
they  reached  the  division  rendezvous.  Several  regiments 
were  already  there.  The  ranks  broke ;  the  soldiers 
plied  each  other  with  questions ;  groups  of  men  became 
debating  societies.  Rumors,  speculations,  emphatic  asser 
tions,  made  the  air  buzz  like  a  quilting  bee.  There  was 
nothing  sure  except  the  vague  certainty  of  imminent 
battle. 

"Get  the  men  to  sleep  at  once.  We've  got  a  long 
stretch  to-morrow,"  the  officers  went  around  saying  to 
the  sergeants. 

It  was  the  last  day  of  June.  The  air  was  balmy,  and 
the  soldiers  lay  down  on  the  grass,  and  slept  under  the 
gauzy  canopy  of  the  stars. 

Bourland  was  wakeful.  His  mood  was  buoyant,  as  if 
he  were  being  lifted  on  the  crest  of  a  wave.  The  great 
test  was  coming.  Soon,  he  doubted  not,  the  battle  would 
be  over,  and  they  would  be  marching  on  Philadelphia, 
en  route  to  Washington.  The  others,  officers  and  men, 
shared  his  confidence. 

At  last  he  fell  asleep.  Obscure  panoramas,  clashing  and 
clamorous,  drifted  into  his  dreams. 

The  reveille  awoke  him.  It  was  still  dark.  He  shook 
himself  limber.  The  men  took  their  places  in  the  ranks. 
The  columns  began  to  move.  Soon  from  the  rim  of  the 
horizon  a  bloodshot  eye  surveyed  them  sullenly  like  a 


THE  BATTLE   OF   GETTYSBUBG  43 

somnolent  monster  disturbed,  while  the  eastern  sky  grew 
into  the  gracious  smile  of  dawn. 

All  through  the  morning  they  marched  steadily.  The 
sky  above  was  a  serene  azure.  Reverberations  of  thunder 
rolled  in  from  the  front.  The  horses  began  to  snort. 
The  men  went  hurrying  on  all  through  the  afternoon,  at 
intervals  slackening  the  quickstep. 

At  nightfall  they  saw  a  village  in  the  near  distance. 
They  spurted  the  last  stretch  at  double  speed.  The  place 
was  filled  with  jubilant  soldiers.  News  had  come  in. 
The  advance-guards  of  the  two  armies  had  met,  and  the 
Confederates  had  swept  the  field.  Two  Yankee  corps 
had  been  annihilated,  and  the  village  of  Gettysburg  was 
held  by  the  Southern  troops. 

The  tired  veterans  cheered.  They  bolted  their  food  in 
the  nervous  excitement. 

Bourland  studied  a  map  by  the  campfire.  They  were 
still  miles  away.  "It  will  be  all  over  before  we  get 
there,"  he  said  peevishly.  "  We  can't  possibly  reach  the 
field  before  to-morrow  evening."  Fate  was  cheating  them 
of  their  share  of  the  glory. 

Pickett,  their  commander,  came  around  with  his  staff, 
inspecting  and  making  short  speeches. 

"  Keep  cool,  boys,"  he  said.  "  We'll  come  on  the  field 
like  Blucher." 

The  next  morning  the  regiments  were  again  marching 
before  daylight.  There  were  few  laggards.  In  the  hurry 
they  broke  step,  pushed  each  other  ahead.  Men,  stepping 
aside  to  drink  from  their  canteens,  ran  to  regain  their 
places.  The  prospect  of  action  relieved  the  pain  of  blis 
tered  feet. 

All  morning  the  thunder  peals  rattled  under  the  blue 
roof.  The  soldiers  could  see  the  smoke  rise  and  expand 
into  clouds.  All  afternoon  their  ears  were  dinned  with 
the  rattle  of  musketry.  They  began  to  smell  the  scorch  of 
powder.  It  stimulated  their  nerves  like  quickening  drugs. 

From  time  to  time  couriers  brought  despatches.  The 
news,  altered  by  repetitions,  ran  down  the  lines  followed 
by  cheers,  like  fire  along  a  fuse. 


44  HENRY   BOURLAKD 

"  We're  lickin'  them  into  smithereens." 

"The  Union  left  is  broken." 

"Ewell  has  driven  the  Yankees  from  their  intrench- 
inents." 

"  The  Louisiana  Tigers  captured  two  batteries  on  a  hill 
this  morning." 

"  To-morrow  will  finish  them.  Hooray  for  Dixie  and 
Uncle  Robert  !  " 

At  last  they  came  within  sight  and  hailing  distance  of 
the  rear-guard.  They  passed  over  the  field  of  the  first 
day's  fight.  It  was  strewn  with  guns,  clothing,  motionless 
bodies  in  blue  and  in  gray.  The  wounded  from  the  second 
day's  battle  were  borne  past  them  on  litters.  A  long 
wooded  ridge,  before  their  faces,  shut  off  the  scene  of  con 
tact  and  dispute. 

Orders  came  to  halt  and  bivouac.  The  men,  curious  to 
see,  began  to  grumble. 

"  The  fighting  is  over  for  to-day.  You'll  get  a  belly 
ful  to-morrow.  Take  all  the  rest  you  can,"  said  the 
sergeants. 

They  camped  behind  the  woods,  three  brigades,  intact, 
restive,  jealous. 

Bourland's  weariness  softened  the  earth  into  a  bed  of 
down.  He  slept  soundly.  Early  the  next  morning  he 
walked  up  the  ridge  to  the  crest,  taking  a  message. 

The  air  had  been  cleared  by  the  night  breezes.  Below 
him  lay  a  shallow  valley  of  meadows,  grain  fields,  and 
orchards,  scarred,  crushed,  shattered,  as  if  a  cyclone  had 
swept  through  in  a  fury. 

A  straight  road  bisected  the  battle-field  with  sharp, 
ochreous  definition. 

"  It's  the  dead  line,"  thought  Bourland. 

Across  the  valley  was  another  ridge.  A  Union  regi 
ment,  like  a  gigantic  thousand-legger,  was  cumbrously 
crawling  along  the  sky  line.  Campfires  smoked  faintly 
in  the  bright  sunshine.  With  his  field  glasses,  Bourland 
could  see  the  Yankee  soldiers  squatting  at  breakfast ;  he 
caught  the  glint  of  their  coffee  cans.  He  discerned  the 
deserted,  immobile  engines  of  the  artillery.  He  distin- 


THE   BATTLE   OF   GETTYSBURG  45 

guished  a  group  of  signal  service  officers  examining  the 
Confederate  lines.  Above  the  green  of  the  slope  rose 
the  white  shafts  of  a  cemetery,  and  in  the  northern  gap  of 
the  valley,  like  a  dam,  lay  the  village  of  Gettysburg. 

A  Confederate  officer  came  by  him,  and  stopped  ;  they 
shook  hands  and  exchanged  names  and  regiments. 

"  Did  you  come  up  with  Pickett  ?  "  he  asked. 

Bourland  answered  in  the  affirmative. 

"Well,  your  boys  will  have  a  chance  to-day.  The  report 
is  that  you  are  to  charge  the  centre." 

He  described  the  operations  of  the  last  two  days. 

"  The  first  day,"  he  said,  pointing  backward  to  the 
northwest,  "we  struck  the  advance  corps  off  there.  They 
fought  desperately  for  eight  hours,  but  in  the  end  they 
ran  off  like  geese  and  left  us  the  field  and  the  town.  We 
ought  to  have  followed  them  up  ;  but  wre  didn't.  Uncle 
Robert  was  too  cautious.  We  got  a  splendid  position  here, 
however,  along  this  Seminary  Ridge.  Our  delay  gave  the 
Yankees  time  to  come  up  and  re-form  011  those  heights 
opposite,  Cemetery  Ridge  I  think  it  is  called.  Their  line, 
as  I  make  it  out,  is  in  the  shape  of  a  hand  sickle  with  the 
back  rim  toward  us.  The  point  over  there  on  the  north 
is  Gulp's  Hill.  The  Louisiana  Tigers  took  it,  but  couldn't 
hold  it ;  out  of  two  full  regiments  only  three  hundred  got 
back.  Down  there,"  he  continued,  pointing  to  the  south 
east,  "is  the  other  extremity  of  the  line  at  those  rocky 
eminences,  the  Round  Tops.  The  hard  fighting  yesterday 
was  for  them,  but  the  Yankees  stuck  to  them  like  fly 
paper.  Lee's  plan  was  to  push  back  both  ends  and  bend 
the  sickle  into  a  circle." 

"  Didn't  we  do  it  ?  "  asked  Bourland,  eagerly. 

"  No,  by  guns,  we  didn't !  The  fight  yesterday  was  a 
stand-off  with  a  slight  advantage  for  us.  Do  you  see 
that  peach  orchard  and  that  wheat  field  in  the  direction 
of  Round  Top  ?  A  Union  division  came  out  too  far, 
making  a  salient  angle  with  the  main  line.  We  drove 
them  back,  and  they  returned  thirteen  times.  Great 
God!  you  never  saw  such  slaughter.  They  tell  me  you 
can  walk  across  that  wheat  field  011  dead  bodies  as 


46  HENKY  BOUKLAND 

stepping  stones.  Look!  look!  Here  comes  Uncle  Rob 
ert  himself." 

"  That's  Pickett  and  Longs  tree  t  with  him,"  added 
Bourland. 

They  watched  the  trio  closely.  Lee  calmly  pointed 
out  an  umbrella-shaped  clump  of  trees  in  the  middle  of 
the  Union  line.  Pickett  shook  his  head  with  ready  un 
derstanding  and  assent.  Longstreet  was  inattentive, 
kicking  the  grass  as  a  gesture  of  ineffective  protest. 

"  I  reckon  Longstreet  doesn't  approve  of  it,"  said  the 
officer. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  asked  Bourland. 

"  It's  too  risky,  and  it  means  too  much  business  for  the 
undertaker.  I  suppose  this  is  the  plan  :  having  failed  to 
drive  back  the  wings,  Lee  will  send  Pickett  with  his 
fresh  brigades  to  smash  through  the  centre  and  cut  the 
Yankees  into  two.  Word  came  last  night  from  Jeb 
Stuart.  He's  back  of  the  Yankees  somewhere  with  twelve 
thousand  cavalry.  As  you  fellows  break  a  gateway 
through  the  Union  centre,  he  will  swoop  down  in  the 
rear  and  meet  you.  If  you  can,  you  will  smash  into  the 
Yankees  like  a  wedge  and  split  them  up.  It's  awful  bold  ; 
but  if  you  do  it,  the  Union  army  is  a  goner." 

The  conference  of  generals  broke  up.  Lee  mounted 
his  horse  and  rode  away.  Pickett  went  off  joyfully, 
while  Longstreet  looked  upon  the  ground,  nodding  many 
negatives. 

Bourland  glanced  again  across  the  valley.  The  sun 
shine  lay  over  it  warm  and  smiling.  He  wondered  if  this 
was  his  last  day  on  earth. 

He  returned  to  his  regiment.  The  rumor  was  before 
him,  and  shortly  after  came  the  definite  order.  Pickett's 
brigade  with  supports  was  to  charge  the  Union  centre. 

"Well,  I'll  make  my  will  again,"  said  an  officer  of 
Bouiiand's  mess.  "I've  got  less  to  leave  than  last 
time." 

"Longstreet  doesn't  want  us  to  go." 

"Oh,  hell!  He's  an  old  woman.  Send  him  to  the 
dressmaker." 


THE   BATTLE   OF   GETTYSBUKG  47 

"  Some  of  us  will  never  need  another  tailor." 

"  Dulce  et  decorum  pro  patria  mori"  some  one  said 
jauntily. 

At  ten  o'clock  the  files  were  formed  and  marched  to  the 
woods  that  covered  the  crest  of  the  ridge.  They  were 
ordered  to  halt  there  and  lie  down  upon  their  arms. 

For  three  hours  they  waited  the  command  to  advance. 

About  one  o'clock  there  was  a  sudden  roar,  which 
unfolded  and  spread  with  rattling  reverberations.  Imme 
diately  a  hundred  guns  followed  with  a  hundred  voices 
of  applause.  Soon  afterward  a  blaze  and  thunder  of 
defiant  reply  resounded  from  across  the  valley. 

An  artillery  duel  was  preluding  the  drama  of  battle 
with  an  orchestral  fanfare. 

The  atmosphere  was  filled  with  strident  music  at  the 
sustained  pitch  of  climax.  Shells  flew  over  their  heads 
in  screaming  fits  of  delirium  tremens.  Grape  and  canis 
ter  ripped  the  trees  and  brought  down  a  rainfall  of  leaves 
and  splinters.  Fragments  of  iron,  as  if  with  teeth, 
gnawed  their  way  into  the  bosom  of  the  earth.  The  mis 
siles  burst,  screeched,  snarled,  and  then  died  into  quick 
silences.  The  powers  of  the  air  were  holding  a  clamorous 
council  and  dispute. 

The  soldiers  behind  the  crest  were  protected  by  a  natu 
ral  earthwork. 

"  That's  the  trick,"  said  a  man  at  Bourland's  side. 
"  We've  got  them  guessing.  They'll  exhaust  their  am 
munition  before  we  charge." 

Bourland  looked  on  intently  at  the  fascinating  play  of 
the  maddened  energies.  The  air  was  filled  with  balloons 
of  smoke.  Huge  phantoms  of  vapor  drifted  scornfully 
northward,  out  of  the  midst  of  which  shells  like  flaming 
hearts  flashed  and  burst  and  tore  their  entrails. 

The  atmosphere  bit  and  stung  with  the  fumes  of  nitre 
and  sulphur. 

The  long  line  of  artillery  across  the  valley  bayed  bru 
tally  like  packs  of  angered  bloodhounds,  separated  from 
their  prey  by  a  river.  They  showed  yellow  fangs.  They 
thrust  out  scorched,  bleeding  tongues,  and  drew  them 


48  HENRY  BOURLAND 

back  instantly.  The  masters  stood  beside  them,  urging, 
encouraging,  aggravating  their  fury. 

The  sun  was  darkened  by  grim  densities  out  of  which 
fell  continually  a  hail  of  minute  meteors.  The  hills 
shook  and  shrugged  their  shoulders.  The  earth  quivered 
and  trembled  in  its  bonds. 

One  by  one  the  Yankee  dogs  of  iron  ceased  baying, 
as  if  their  throats  were  raw  beyond  the  power  of  further 
utterance.  The  guns  were  evidently  silenced. 

u  There  goes  Pickett,"  cried  a  soldier. 

Bourland  looked  through  his  field  glasses.  He  could 
see  their  commander  riding  over  toward  Longstreet's 
headquarters.  Pickett  stopped,  saluted,  and  said  some 
thing.  Longstreet  made  no  answer,  except  a  bowing  of 
his  head.  Pickett  then  turned  to  his  staff  officers,  who 
rode  off  to  the  divisions. 

The  order  ran  down  the  line  to  make  ready  for  the 
advance.  The  men  sprang  up  as  if  suddenly  unleashed. 

Eighteen  thousand  soldiers  crept  out  of  their  conceal 
ment  in  the  woods  and  inarched  to  the  open  field.  They 
carried  their  guns  at  right  shoulder  shift,  and  moved  with 
the  precision  of  a  dress  parade. 

The  Yankees,  more  than  a  mile  away,  discovered  them 
and  divined  their  purpose ;  for  they  rose  up  from  their 
breastworks  with  a  ringing  cheer  of  admiration,  and  a 
long  line  of  waving  caps  stretched  from  Cemetery  Hill  to 
Round  Top.  Then  men  and  caps  disappeared  behind  a 
bristling  fringe  of  muskets. 

Bourland's  eyes  were  fixed  on  that  clump  of  trees 
shaped  like  an  umbrella.  He  hoped  to  reach  the  shade  of 
it.  He  had  already  won  his  spurs  ;  but  perhaps  he  was 
now  going  to  win  a  monument. 

Slowly  the  Confederates  advanced.  Halfway  across 
they  paused  to  take  breath.  The  ranks  were  broken  in 
climbing  a  fence,  but  they  were  quickly  re-formed.  The 
inarch  continued  with  the  steadiness  of  a  machine's  motion. 
Above  their  heads  flew  a  covey  of  iron  shells  to  protect 
their  forward  movement. 

The   silence   of   the    Union   batteries   was   reassuring. 


THE    BATTLE   OF   GETTYSBURG  49 

The  ammunition,  doubtless,  was  exhausted,  and  the  guns 
therefore  were  eliminated  from  the  forces  of  defence. 

Suddenly  the  Yankee  cannon  denied  the  supposition 
in  flaming  negatives.  Grape  and  canister,  shot  and 
shell,  tore  great  gaps  in  the  advancing  column.  Men 
dropped  like  stalks  of  wheat  under  the  scythe,  and  lay 
prone.  The  ranks  closed  up ;  not  a  man  spoke,  not  a 
man  faltered. 

Bourland  strode  on  automatically  ahead  of  his  men.  He 
looked  steadfastly  to  the  front.  He  saw  the  low  rise  of 
the  intrenchments,  the  spikes  of  the  projecting  muskets, 
the  set,  stony  faces  peering  above  them  like  a  row  of  carved 
heads  on  a  museum  shelf.  But  these  he  knew  had  brains 
with  diabolic  intentions. 

His  eyes  became  as  heated  coals  in  their  sockets  ;  his 
breath  sucked  his  throat  dry  like  a  sponge  ;  his  muscles 
seemed  to  stiffen  and  grow  heavy.  He  moved  like  a 
mechanical  toy. 

The  Union  artillery  spoke  again  with  challenging,  con 
temptuous,  red  defiances.  The  smoke  drifted  down  over 
the  Yankee  soldiers  and  breastworks. 

Before  Bourland's  eyes  the  field  became  a  blur.  Mem 
ory  lifted  a  curtain  in  the  dark  chamber  of  his  brain.  He 
saw,  as  through  a  window,  the  old  Hall,  his  father  and 
sister  standing  on  the  veranda ;  and  far  beyond,  leaning 
out  of  the  skies,  the  dear,  pallid  face  of  his  mother  reach 
ing  downward  with  outstretched  arms.  Ancestral  voices 
murmured  vaguely,  "  Henry  Bourland,  we  are  watching 
you." 

When  he  again  became  fully  conscious  of  the  world 
without  him,  every  noise  had  ceased.  There  was  an 
awe-inspiring,  puzzling  lull,  as  if  Nature  had  stepped  in  at 
the  last  moment  and  commanded  a  truce. 

They  desired  no  cessation  of  hostilities.  They  were  bent 
on  Washington  and  a  conquered  independence. 

The  ranks  continued  to  advance.  They  were  nearing 
the  invisible,  indeterminate  line.  Bourland  wondered 
when  the  infantry  would  begin  to  shoot.  The  muskets 
in  front  of  him  seemed  to  be  holding  their  breath.  He 


50  HENRY   BOUKLAND 

thought  of  his  men.  He  must  reassure  them.  A  stray 
reminiscence  from  the  apostle  came  to  him  ;  he  uttered  it, 
coupled  with  a  modern  phrase  of  the  soldier. 

"Steady,  boys.     Quit  you  like  men." 

"  We're  as  cool  as  icicles.  Lead  on,  Major,"  muttered  a 
sergeant  behind  him.  He  noticed  now  the  firm  tread  of 
his  soldiers.  It  tightened  the  clutch  of  his  own  nerves. 
The  umbrella-shaped  clump  of  trees  was  only  a  hundred 
yards  distant. 

The  iron  fringe  of  musket  barrels  in  front  suddenly  shot 
forth  a  silken  fringe  of  flame.  A  ribbon  of  smoke  hid  the 
stone  wall  and  the  strange  faces  behind.  It  lifted  slowly 
and  revealed  the  defenders  in  the  hysterical  motions  of 
reloading. 

An  order  ran  along  the  Confederate  line  to  halt. 

"Make  ready!" 

The  row  of  gunlocks  clicked  like  the  ripple  of  tuneless 
piano  keys. 

"Fire!" 

The  soldiers  delivered  a  single  discharge. 

A  man  rushed  out  ahead  of  the  column.  It  was  General 
Armistead. 

"  Think  of  your  hearthstones,  boys,  and  give  them  cold 
steel,"  he  shouted,  waving  his  sword  as  he  sprang  forward. 

The  ranks  made  a  rush  for  the  stone  wall.  Another 
line  rose  to  meet  them.  The  formations  were  now  utterly 
broken.  The  invaders  leaped  over  the  intrenchments.  It 
was  no  longer  a  battle ;  it  was  a  fight,  man  to  man,  and 
the  stake  was  self-preservation. 

They  spitted  each  other  with  their  bayonets,  and  men 
doubled  up  like  jack-knives,  and  rolled  on  the  ground  in 
convulsions.  They  clubbed  their  muskets  and  swung  blud 
geon  blows,  until  heads  were  cracked  like  walnuts.  Tardy 
words  of  surrender  were  thrust  back  into  throats  with 
points  of  steel.  Many  in  the  clash  lost  their  weapons  and 
took  to  the  primitive,  unarmed  instincts  of  grappling  and 
thuggery.  Some,  seeing  that  further  struggle  was  useless, 
dropped  down  and  lay  opossum-like  on  the  grass.  Oaths, 
wails,  shrieks,  commands,  cheers,  yells,  —  a  clamorous  an- 


THE   BATTLE   OF   GETTYSBURG  51 

archy  in  pandemonium,  —  relieved  the  tension  and  mur 
derous  horror  with  their  drowning  accompaniment  of  sound. 

"  Come  on,  boys,"  cried  Armistead,  at  the  critical 
moment,  when  the  line  of  impetus  hung  vacillating.  He 
pushed  his  way  thirty  paces  through  the  Union  defenders 
and  fell,  mortally  wounded. 

"  I  follow,  General,"  cried  Bourland.  He  caught  a  stand 
ard  from  a  falling  color-sergeant,  and  he  reached  his  leader 
just  as  he  fell.  He  planted  the  flag  at  his  head,  the  high 
mark  of  the  Confederate  flood  tide.  He  bent  over  to 
catch  his  last  words :  — 

"  Don't  let  them  beat  us  back,"  gasped  Armistead,  like 
a  true  Anglo-Saxon. 

Something  struck  Bourland  in  the  shoulder  and  swerved 
his  body  to  the  right.  He  saw  much  in  an  instant.  Two 
gunners  were  rushing  at  him  with  ramrods  ready  to  swing. 
He  felt  the  sense  of  the  end.  But  he  wanted  to  die  in  the 
shadow  of  those  trees.  He  started  to  move  toward  the 
right.  A  horror  paralyzed  his  limbs.  A  man,  three  feet 
away,  lay  on  his  belly  swimming.  He  was  trying  to  get 
up.  A  bayonet  was  spitted  through  his  abdomen,  and, 
rising,  he  rode  the  musket  like  a  hobby  horse,  screaming 
the  scream  of  the  damned.  The  picture  was  photographed 
indelibly  upon  Bourland's  retina. 

He  closed  his  eyes.  The  blow  of  a  club  struck  him  on 
the  leg  and  broke  it.  He  threw  up  his  hands.  The  next 
instant  the  other  gunner  beat  his  skull  Avith  a  ramrod. 
He  fell  prone  upon  the  ground. 

He  seemed  to  ascend  into  the  dark,  starry  skies,  amid 
the  ringing  of  a  thousand  bells.  He  groped  helplessly  in 
the  vagueness.  He  felt  again  the  impact  of  a  violent  force. 
He  whirled,  he  seemed  to  fall  into  an  abyss.  The  faint 
resonance  of  multitudinous  cheers  stole  into  his  waning 
consciousness.  He  swooned. 


CHAPTER   VII 

IN   THE   VALLEY   OF   DEATH 

THE  firing  became  sporadic  and  finally  ceased.  The 
battle  was  over. 

The  concussions  of  the  artillery  had  shaken  the  vapor 
out  of  the  atmosphere,  which  hung  over  the  fields,  a  gray 
coverlet  of  the  shame.  But  before  nightfall,  the  mist,  the 
smoke,  and  a  slow  wind  drifted  down  through  the  cleft 
of  the  hills,  and  the  valley  of  abomination  lay  bare  to  the 
sky. 

The  hush  of  a  deserted  tabernacle  spread  over  the  land. 
The  departing  light  fringed  the  canopy  of  clouds  with 
traceries  of  silver,  and  embroidered  its  folds  with  hues  of 
pale  emerald  and  mother  of  pearl.  Deep  in  the  west  the 
effulgence  of  the  sun  transfigured  the  world  with  the 
glory  of  the  ancient  shekinah. 

The  calm  of  lonely  silences  grew  into  peace.  One  looked 
upon  that  battle-field,  and  then  put  questions  to  God. 

It  was  too  stupendous  to  be  the  deed  of  men.  It  seemed 
like  the  visitation  of  some  cosmic  catastrophe  ;  as  if  some 
blazing  comet  had  swept  close  to  the  earth,  and  with  its 
heat  and  incalculable  speed  had  scorched  the  green  fields 
and  blasted  the  lives  of  a  multitude. 

Eight  thousand  men  lay  dead,  and  thrice  that  number 
were  wounded. 

But  as  one  passed  into  the  midst  of  it  the  illusion  of  a 
cosmic  catastrophe  gave  place  to  the  reality.  It  was  not  a 
tragedy  of  fire,  but  of  blood.  Everywhere,  in  broken  heaps 
and  scattered  fragments,  were  visible  the  instruments,  — 
the  swart  engines  of  destruction,  cast-away  muskets, 
dismantled  cannon  cooling  their  rage,  jagged  bits  of 

52 


IN   THE   VALLEY   OF   DEATH  53 

iron  shells,  once  screaming  with  fury,  now  silent,  inert, 
powerless. 

The  destroyers  had  marked  each  victim  with  a  sign ; 
some  with  small,  dark  spots,  welling  the  ruby  stream  of 
life  from  hidden  sources ;  others  with  mutilations  more 
brutish,  shattered  bodies,  shattered  limbs,  shattered  skulls, 
bearing  red  brandmarks  like  cattle  led  to  the  slaughter. 
All  the  green  earth,  in  road  and  stream  and  meadow,  had 
received  a  bath  of  blood. 

The  bodies  of  the  dead  began  to  swell;  the  flesh  to 
grow  livid  and  purple.  The  wounded  lay  still,  or  crawled 
among  the  corpses,  which,  a  few  hours  before,  had  been 
comrades,  and  which  were  now  mere  debris  of  the  orgy 
of  hate.  It  was  a  vast  tableau,  with  the  grim  power  of 
the  Gorgon. 

At  last  the  night  fell,  and  darkness  veiled  the  horror  from 
the  eye.  Then  the  senses  were  stirred  through  the  ear. 
Out  of  the  void  came  low  wailings,  hushed  by  the  immen 
sity  of  space ;  frail  cries  of  helplessness,  like  the  twitter 
of  birds, — an  intermittent,  discordant  miserere  of  human 
pain. 

As  the  chill  of  night  descended,  Henry  Bourland  came 
slowly,  slowly  back  to  life.  At  first  he  felt  only  an  ill- 
defined  sensation  of  identity.  It  was  devoid  of  all  ideas  of 
the  past,  of  time,  or  place.  Yet  it  was  dimly  distinct  from 
other  vague  sensations  of  touch  and  sound.  Without  voli 
tion,  he  opened  his  eyes.  The  moon  was  just  rising  above 
the  hills,  gibbous  and  pallid  as  lymph.  The  mist,  faintly 
luminous,  crept  over  the  field  like  a  body  of  slow-moving 
water.  He  had  no  more  conception  of  personal  entity  than 
one  of  the  lower  forms  of  animal  life.  He  was  lying,  it 
seemed,  in  the  depths  of  the  ocean,  on  the  soft,  chill  ooze, 
like  a  squid  with  its  tentacles  stretched  on  the  sea  floor. 
He  could  see,  by  turning  his  eyes,  the  projecting  rocks,  the 
level  bed,  spotted  with  sea  monsters  and  submarine  shrubs. 
He  could  discern  other  forms,  with  torpid  motion,  float 
ing,  gliding  aimlessly.  Feeble  sounds,  piercingly  audible 
in  the  water,  beat  on  his  ears.  He  lay  there  without 
movement. 


54  HENRY  BOURLAND 

The  glare  of  a  burning  barn,  from  the  south,  dissolved  the 
illusion  of  the  sea  depths.  It  aroused  the  latent  thought 
of  earth  and  revived  a  clearer  notion  of  self.  Memory,  a 
confusion  of  experiences,  without  relation  or  sequence, 
worked  in  his  brain  like  a  dream.  Other  ideas  followed 
more  coherent ;  the  images  of  mountains,  horses,  a  play 
room,  a  great  house  in  a  garden  of  trees,  the  forms  and 
faces  for  whom  he  felt  even  now  a  personal  affection. 

The  vaporous  fumes  withdrew  from  his  mind  and  left 
him  with  definite  impressions.  He  had  recovered  the 
past  up  to  his  childhood. 

Suddenly  a  clear  idea  flashed  out  of  nothingness.  Ah, 
yes  !  he  knew  now  where  he  was.  He  had  been  hunting 
with  his  father,  and  they  had  camped  out  for  the  night. 
He  remembered  now  their  supper  of  cornbread  and  par 
tridges  roasted  on  a  steel  ramrod,  the  brandy  and  water 
in  tin  cups,  and  the  shake-down  of  leaves.  How  chilly  it 
was !  The  fire  must  have  gone  out.  He  recalled  his 
father's  rheumatism  ;  he  must  get  up  and  kindle  the  camp- 
fire  again.  He  willed  to  move,  but  could  not.  Something 
lay  on  his  chest. 

"  Father  !  "  he  called. 

There  was  no  response. 

He  made  another  effort  to  turn,  and  this  time  he  suc 
ceeded.  A  cold  liquid  dripped  on  his  face.  He  pushed 
against  the  burden.  He  saw  now,  to  his  horror,  a  strange 
visage,  with  ghastly  eyes  staring  into  his  own.  From  the 
mouth  fell  thick,  jelly-like  drops. 

He  associated  this  horror  with  a  murder  of  which  he 
had  once  read,  and  which  he  had  always  vividly  remem 
bered  ;  it  was  a  tale  by  Poe. 

"Who  are  you?"  he  asked  stupidly.  There  was  no 
answer.  He  realized  by  a  simple  inference  that  he  was 
lying  under  a  dead  man. 

One  by  one  the  lost  links  of  memory  were  replaced  in 
the  chain.  He  began  to  compare  facts,  to  form  a  judg 
ment,  and  with  this  mental  power  he  gained  full  control 
of  his  reason. 

At  last  he  recalled  the  battle,  the  charge,  the  leaping  of 


IN   THE   VALLEY   OF   DEATH  55 

the  wall,  the  flag,  the  fall  of  his  general,  the  blows  from 
the  gunners. 

He  was  aching  all  over,  in  every  bone  and  limb. 

His  first  intelligent  act  was  to  push  the  dead  man  aside 
and  free  himself.  After  that  he  examined  his  situation  in 
detail.  He  had  fallen  into  a  clump  of  sumach  bushes  at  the 
foot  of  a  rock,  and  the  branches  had  broken  the  force  of 
the  fall. 

Over  on  Seminary  Ridge  the  campfires  of  his  comrades, 
those  that  were  left,  burned  in  a  long  line.  Here  and 
there  on  the  field  were  points  of  light,  moving  like  fire 
flies —  doubtless  the  lanterns  of  those  searching  for  the 
wounded.  Shouts  and  songs  came  from  above  the  rock. 
He  imagined  that  the  Yankees  were  celebrating  their 
victory. 

Some  one  moaned  near  by,  and  Bourland  recognized  the 
voice  instantly.  It  was  Tom  Rawlins  of  his  own  com 
pany. 

"  Is  that  you,  Rawlins  ?  " 

"  Thank  heaven,  Major  Henry  !     Are  you  alive  ?  " 

"Just  about,  but  not  much  more." 

"  Can  you  crawl  over  here,  Major  ?     I  can't  move." 

Bourland,  after  finding  by  experiment  that  his  leg  was 
broken,  was  able  to  grope  his  way  around  four  dead 
bodies,  and  to  reach  the  spot  where  his  comrade  lay. 

"I  guess  I'm  almost  done  for,"  gasped  Rawlins.  "I've 
got  moonlight  in  my  lungs;  I  can  feel  it  bite."  There 
was  will  power  in  the  wan  smile  of  his  face.  "  Did  we 
break  their  lines  ?  " 

"  I'm  afraid  not.  They  seem  pretty  happy  back  there," 
replied  Bourland. 

The  wan  smile  died  away. 

"  We  did  our  best,  anyway,  didn't  we,  Major  ?  " 

"  I  don't  believe  any  men  in  the  world  could  have  done 
more." 

"  I'm  so  sorry  for  Uncle  Robert,"  murmured  Rawlins, 
as  if  to  himself.  A  moment  later  in  another  tone  he  said  : 
"  Major,  come  closer  to  me.  It's  a  pretty  wide  bed,  isn't 
it  ?  I  reckon  I've  only  got  a  few  minutes  more." 


56  HENRY   BOURLAND 

They  lay  there  talking  and  looking  up  at  the  sky. 
The  diminutive  stars  were  melting  in  the  increasing 
moonlight. 

"  I'm  afraid  I've  been  a  pretty  bad  fellow  in  my  time, 
Major   Henry  ;    not   so   wicked   as    worthless.       Can't  — 
can't  you  repeat  some  kind  of  a  good  verse  ?     It'll  let  me 
slip  away  easier." 

Bourland  tried  to  recall  the  golden  texts  of  his  Sunday- 
school  days,  but  it  was  very  difficult  to  remember  them. 
No  one  he  could  think  of  seemed  suitable.  He  thought 
of  funerals,  of  the  prayer  at  the  burial  service.  Tears 
moistened  his  eyes  as  he  faltered  out  a  passage  that  came 
to  him  :  — 

"  He  that  believeth  in  me,  though  he  were  dead,  yet  shall  he  live. 

"  In  my  Father's  house  are  many  mansions ;  if  it  were  not  so,  I 
would  have  told  you.  I  go  to  prepare  a  place  for  you.  And  if  I  go 
and  prepare  a  place  for  you,  I  will  come  again,  and  receive  you  unto 
myself;  that  where  I  am,  there  ye  may  be  also." 

"  God  save  me,  for  Christ's  sake,"  broke  out  the  dying 
man.  "  Do  you  think  He  will,  Major  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  think  He  will,  Tom,"  replied  Bourland.  "  I  don't 
think  God  will  damn  any  man,  no  matter  how  bad  he 
Avas,  who  walked  across  this  field  to-day." 

They  lay  silent  after  that  for  some  time,  and  finally 
Rawlins  muttered,  scarcely  loud  enough  for  Bourland  to 
hear,  "  Good-by,  sweetheart." 

The  other  man  closed  his  eyes  like  one  before  some 
thing  too  sacred  for  alien  sight.  But  Rawlins  spoke  up 
again. 

"Do  you  really  think,  Major,  that  after  we  die  we 
still  go  on?" 

"I  feel  sure  of  it,  Tom." 

"Then,"  said  the  comforted  fellow,  "if  you  ever  get 
back  home,  go  down  to  Roanoke  and  ask  for  Molly 
Spence,  and  tell  her  that  I've  gone  on,  but  that  I'll  wait 
•  for  her.  I  hated  to  leave  her,  Major  Henry,  and  go  to 
the  war,  'deed  I  did  ;  but  she  said  I  couldn't  have  her 
if  I  stayed  at  home.  Just  tell  her  not  to  mind.  I've 
only  gone  ahead  on  an  earlier  train." 


IN   THE   VALLEY   OF   DEATH  57 

The  promise  that  Bourland  gave  broke  through  a  sob. 

"  Tell  her,  too,"  the  man  continued,  "  that  I  died  in  a 
foreign  land,  but  I  fell  face  front." 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  passed  ;  both  watched  and  waited. 

"  Come  nearer,  come  close,  Major.  I'm  going,"  said 
Rawlins,  steadily,  putting  out  his  hand. 

Bourland  grasped  the  hand,  and  felt  a  tremor  come  out 
of  it.  There  were  two  or  three  gasps,  followed  by  a  half- 
choked  rattle,  and  when  he  raised  his  head  and  turned 
toward  his  comrade,  he  saw  a  white  face  and  two  eyes 
gazing  peacefully  at  the  stars. 

Bourland  placed  the  soldier's  arms  crosswise  over  his 
breast,  took  a  few  trinkets  from  his  pockets  as  memorials 
for  his  friends,  and  then  crawled  away.  It  was  too  lonely, 
too  horrible,  to  lie  beside  a  friend's  cold  corpse. 

Near  by  he  came  to  another  member  of  his  company. 
He  shook  him  and  called  out,  "Jim."  It  was  no  use  to 
talk  to  him,  he  was  stone  dead.  He  had  been  shot  through 
the  left  side  and  through  the  mouth.  The  lips  had  con 
tracted  and  showed  the  grim  teeth  locked  fast  by  a  teta 
nus.  His  fingers  were  tightly  clutching  something,  which 
proved  to  be  a  little  black  case  with  an  inner  rim  of  gilt  ; 
the  daguerreotype  of  a  young  woman  with  bared  shoul 
ders,  and  curls  bound  with  a  black  veil. 

The  effort  of  movement  had  weakened  Bourland  consid 
erably.  Up  to  this  time  his  body  had  been  one  dull  sen 
sation  of  pain.  Pangs  more  acute  noAV  began  to  localize 
themselves  about  his  wounds  He  realized  that  in  addi 
tion  to  his  broken  leg,  which  burned  and  smarted  like 
corrosive  acid,  he  had  been  wounded  in  the  shoulder.  The 
action  of  his  muscles  in  crawling  had  torn  away  the  dried 
blood  and  reopened  the  wound.  It  was  a  raw  laceration, 
like  the  bite  of  a  wildcat.  The  blood  began  to  flow  again, 
and  the  shoulder  to  sting  as  if  needles  were  excoriating 
the  flesh.  His  head  ached  violently  now  and  hummed 
with  the  confused  murmur  of  a  beehive.  He  felt  exhausted, 
and  he  lay  down  again,  helpless. 

In  drowsy  meditation  he  scanned  the  situation.  It  was 
improbable  that  the  hospital  corps  of  his  own  army  would 


58  HENEY  BOUKLAND 

reach  this  side  of  the  field.  If,  therefore,  he  were  rescued 
at  all,  it  must  be  by  the  enemy,  and  he  would  become  a  pris 
oner.  He  had  seen  the  gleam  of  lamps,  but  none,  as  yet, 
had  come  near  him.  The  relief  corps  had  evidently  passed 
him  by,  as  he  lay  there  unconscious,  thinking  him  dead. 
That  explained  why  there  were  so  few  wounded  men 
about  him.  Immediate  aid,  in  any  event,  was  there 
fore  uncertain.  Every  moment,  as  it  passed,  left  him 
weaker. 

He  found  himself  less  able  to  collect  his  ideas.  It  was 
impossible  for  him  to  stanch  the  blood  flow  from  the 
wound,  and  the  thought  came  to  him  that  he  was  bleeding 
to  death.  It  did  not  disturb  his  calmness  and  courage  ; 
he  was  not  afraid  to  die.  But  when  he  recalled  his  father 
and  sister,  their  grief  at  his  loss,  the  knowledge  that  he 
was  the  only  son  and  the  last  of  the  line,  that  with  him  a 
noble  family  would  become  extinct,  a  natural  impulse  of 
family  pride  and  responsibility  began  to  burn  like  an  in 
ward  flame,  and  with  it  came  a  desire  to  be  saved.  While 
he  was  thus  meditating,  however,  a  lassitude  dulled  his 
senses,  and  he  fell  asleep. 

Some  time  later  he  was  awakened  by  the  sound  of  voices. 
He  opened  his  eyes,  and  the  first  sight  that  met  them  was 
the  blinding  flash  of  the  moon.  He  lay  as  in  a  waking 
trance.  He  could  not  get  a  grip  on  his  will. 

Several  men  and  two  women  were  standing  not  far 
away.  A  man,  bearing  a  lantern,  approached  and  dropped 
it  rudely  down  into  his  face. 

"  He's  dead,  as  dead  as  Peter,"  he  said  decisively,  and 
turned  away. 

Bourland  with  effort  gathered  enough  strength  to  moan 
and  to  raise  his  hand. 

"Hark,"  he  heard  one  of  the  women  say.  "No,  he 
is  alive  yet.  He  moved  his  hand." 

They  all  approached  him.  A  young  woman  bent  down 
and  put  her  hand  on  his  forehead.  Bourland,  as  he  felt 
the  touch,  and  saw  the  graciousness  of  her  eyes,  had  a 
new  conception  of  humanity.  The  pain  of  his  wounds 
seemed  to  lessen. 


IN   THE   VALLEY   OF   DEATH  59 

"  Can  you  speak  ?  "  she  asked,  in  a  voice  as  gentle  as 
the  croon  of  a  lullaby. 

"  Yes,  I  am  hanging  on  yet,  but  I  think  I'll  soon  slip 
away."  He  endeavored  to  smile. 

"  Oh,  he's  done  for,  Miss  Randall.  He  won't  live  until 
morning.  We've  already  spent  too  much  time  on  these 
fellows.  We  ought  to  look  first  after  our  own  men."  The 
man,  dog-tired,  growled  his  protest. 

Bourland's  new  conception  of  humanity  was  balanced 
with  another.  In  his  pride  he  spoke  no  word  of  plead 
ing,  nor  was  he  conscious  that  his  face  showed  any  emo 
tion.  But  the  girl,  bending  down  again,  must  have  seen 
a  mute  appeal  in  his  countenance. 

44  Take  him  up,"  she  commanded.  "  Carefully,  now ; 
any  rebel  is  worth  saving  who  came  across  this  field  to-day. 
Besides,  he's  an  officer,"  she  added,  giving  a  military  rea 
son  for  her  act  of  mercy. 

Bourland's  face  was  a  wan  smile  of  gratitude,  and  in 
his  weakness  tears  started  in  his  eyes.  He  tried  to  speak. 

"  Save  your  strength,"  she  said  with  compassion.  "  It 
may  be  a  long  time  before  your  wounds  can  be  dressed, 
and  you  haven't  much  left.  Please  give  me  your  name 
and  regiment." 

He  gave  both,  and  she  wrote  them  down  in  a  note-book. 

The  men  carried  the  litter  to  the  ambulance. 


CHAPTER   VIII 

A   ROMANCE   IN   A  HOSPITAL 

ONE  morning,  the  following  August,  Henry  Bourland 
lay  on  his  invalid's  cot,  impatiently  counting  the  strokes 
of  the  clock. 

The  halls  of  Gettysburg  College  had  been  turned  into 
hospitals,  and  in  one  of  the  rooms  of  the  dormitory  Bour 
land  had  endured  the  six  weeks  of  midsummer.  The 
heat  had  been  intense ;  day  after  day  the  sun  blazed  down 
upon  the  earth,  hot  as  the  flames  of  a  gun-barrel,  and  the 
wounded  man  fretted  himself  into  a  condition  of  neurotic 
languor.  He  had  narrowly  escaped  the  loss  of  his  leg. 
The  surgeons  with  their  usual  zeal  for  beautiful  opera 
tions,  and  in  the  fear  of  blood  poisoning,  had  recommended 
amputation.  But  Bourland  grimly  declared  that  his  legs 
had  been  comrades  in  life,  and  that  death  should  not  find 
them  divided. 

Amid  the  irritations  of  heat  and  slow  recovery  there  had 
been  some  soothing  experiences.  The  Yankees,  he  found, 
were  really  human  beings  ;  they  had  shown  him  nothing 
but  kindness  and  good-will.  Indeed,  when  it  became 
known  that  he  was  the  gallant  young  officer  who  had  car 
ried  the  flag  up  to  the  "  high- water  mark  "  of  the  Confed 
erate  invasion,  they  treated  him  with  a  courtesy  and  a 
solicitude  that  shamed  him,  and  put  to  flight  all  his  former 
prejudices  against  them. 

"Why,  they've  got  the  manners  of  gentlemen,"  he 
muttered  to  himself  one  day,  after  some  delicate  act  of 
consideration. 

During  the  first  weeks  he  had  shared  his  room  with  a 
Quaker  from  North  Carolina,  who,  against  his  will  and 
principles,  had  been  conscripted  into  the  Confederate 

60 


A  ROMANCE  IN  A  HOSPITAL  61 

army.  He  was  a  queer  individual,  thought  Bourland  ; 
but  he  soon  discovered  him  to  be  a  man  of  unusual 
intelligence  and  sweetness  of  temper. 

His  conversations  with  Bourland  gave  the  young  aristo 
crat  a  new  view  of  the  war  —  a  conception  which  made 
him  reflect  and  revise  some  of  his  narrow  opinions. 

"  It's  the  rich  man's  war  and  the  poor  man's  fight,"  the 
Quaker  declared  one  day. 

"It  is  the  struggle  of  a  noble  people  for  their  rights 
and  their  liberties,"  replied  Bourland,  with  eloquent  as 
surance. 

"  Thee's  mistaken,  friend.  A  few  aristocrats  want  to 
live  at  their  ease  while  their  fellow-men  labor.  So  they 
preach  that  slavery  is  a  divine  institution  and  necessary 
for  the  continuance  of  the  South.  The  truth  is,  it  is  a 
diabolic  oppression,  and  necessary  only  for  their  own  selfish 
and  idle  vanities.  What  about  me  and  thousands  like  me  ? 
What  have  I,  a  storekeeper  in  Guilford,  to  gain  by  this 
war  ?  " 

"  Your  self-respect  and  honor,  which  is  more  than  gain," 
answered  Bourland,  with  a  trace  of  contempt. 

"  Tut,  tut,  friend  !  God  will  decide  that.  This  honor 
is  only  the  pretext  and  sham  of  demagogues.  But  I  bear 
thee  and  thy  kind  no  ill-will,  even  if  I  was  hung  up  in 
the  strappado  and  forced  into  the  army.  But  thy  cause  is 
iniquitous,  and  it  is  doomed.  God's  will  shall  prevail  in 
the  end." 

After  the  departure  of  the  Quaker,  who  was  sent  north 
to  the  prison  at  Elmira,  Bourland  often  pondered  his 
words.  That  one  question,  "  What  have  I,  and  thousands 
like  me,  to  gain  by  this  war  ?  "  pestered  his  meditations. 
He  had  thought  very  little  of  others'  interests,  he  discov 
ered.  The  Quaker's  plea  had  stretched  the  range  of  his 
vision  beyond  the  limits  of  Hall  and  home.  And  although 
he  felt  no  less  militant  for  his  own  cause,  he  saw  there 
were  other  interests  at  stake  ;  and  this  view,  enforced  by 
the  incidents  of  his  convalescence,  allayed  his  former 
prejudice  and  bitterness  against  the  Yankees. 

The  defeat  at   Gettysburg,  and   the  news  of    Grant's 


62  HENEY  BOUBLAND 

capture  of  Vicksburg,  which  followed  soon  after,  sobered 
his  uncritical  assurance  ;  yet  full  of  the  spirit  of  the  South, 
they  did  not  quench  his  enthusiasm.  His  people  he  re 
garded  as  invincible,  and  he  expected  the  ultimate  success 
of  Lee  and  the  Confederate  armies. 

Just  now,  however,  he  was  perplexed  most  by  thoughts 
of  a  more  personal  character.  Even  war  has  its  amenities, 
and  this  amenity  came  daily  to  visit  the  wounded  soldiers. 
With  all  the  pride  of  his  birth  and  exclusive  social  stand 
ards,  Bourland  had  struggled  against  this  new  menace,  this 
alien  influence.  But  his  agitation,  as  he  looked  at  the  little 
round  clock  that  ticked  its  eternal  chatter  on  the  shelf,  was  a 
most  descriptive  comment  on  his  success. 

To  quiet  the  restlessness  of  his  waiting  this  particular 
morning,  he  put  his  hand  under  the  pillow,  and  drew  out 
a  letter.  It  was  from  Eleanor,  with  the  only  news  from 
home  for  several  months.  Some  one  had  got  it  passed 
through  the  Union  lines.  He  had  read  it  daily  for  a 
week. 


"  MY  DEAR  HARRY  :  Your  letter,  which  in  some  way  was  smuggled 
through  to  us,  telling  us  you  were  alive,  came  just  in  time  to  save 
father's  life.  The  report  of  your  death  brought  on  another  of  his 
dreadful  attacks.  Oh  !  how  glad  we  are  to  hope  that  we  may  see  you 
again.  Oh !  brother,  for  more  than  two  weeks  you  were  dead  to  me, 
and  now  you  have  been  given  back  to  us,  thank  God.  It  is  almost 
unendurably  lonely  here,  now  that  mother  is  gone.  Father  will 
never  get  over  her  loss ;  he  visits  her  grave  every  day.  The  suspense 
of  waiting  for  news,  and  of  getting  bad  news  when  it  does  come,  is 
wearing  us  all  down.  Besides  it  is  hard  to  bear  some  of  our  heart 
breaks  in  silence.  Dearest  brother,  my  turn  has  come  at  last.  Major 
Shirley  Brookfield  was  killed  at  Stone  River.  He  was  stooping  down 
to  give  a  poor  fellow  some  water  when  a  bullet  struck  him  in  the  left 
breast.  He  never  spoke.  Oh !  my  God !  Harry,  Harry !  how  can  we 
endure  much  longer  this  terrible  agony.  No  f  I  will  not  complain. 
I  give  him  to  my  country  willingly,  I  could  not  have  loved  him  had 
he  done  less.  I  thank  God  in  my  tears  every  night  for  the  brief  love 
of  his  brave  heart. 

"  You  would  hardly  know  the  place  now.  It  is  much  overrun  with 
weeds.  The  slaves  are  gradually  slipping  off ;  five  went  last  week, 
Andrew  Jackson  among  the  lot.  He,  one  would  think,  should  be  the 
last  to  go.  But  many  of  them,  when  they  see  our  distress,  are  more 
loyal  than  ever,  and  we  shall  not  be  left  utterly  alone. 


A  BOMANCE  IN  A  HOSPITAL  63 

"  We  are  getting  poorer,  in  fact,  almost  poverty-stricken,  but  we  don't 
lose  courage.  Everybody  thinks  General  Lee  knows  what  he  is  about, 
and  will  bring  us  out  all  right  in  the  end.  It  is  hard  to  get  medicine 
for  father,  and  when  we  do  get  a  little  quinine,  he  won't  take  it.  Send 
it  to  the  soldiers,  he  says ;  they  are  doing  the  fighting,  I'm  no  use. 

"  Conscripting  has  begun  among  the  mountaineers  and  among  the 
boys  of  sixteen  and  under.  You  will  be  surprised  to  learn  that  Elsie 
Vinton  is  engaged  to  a  man  named  Clayton.  I'm  amazed  at  her 
choice.  She  wTas  my  friend,  but  I'm  glad  she  didn't  get  you.  This 
man  Clayton,  they  say,  is  getting  rich;  he's  a  commissary  in  the 
army,  and  when  he's  off  on  a  furlough,  he  goes  around  buying  up 
diamonds  and  jewelry  at  low  prices  like  a  curmudgeon.  How  a  woman 
in  these  times  could  love  such  a  man,  I  don't  understand.  I  see  her 
rarely  now.  Give  my  best  regards  to  Miss  Randall.  I  never  knew  her 
well,  and  I  have  forgotten  the  incident  of  which  she  speaks ;  but  tell 
her  that  God  will  repay  her,  though  we  cannot,  for  her  kindness  to 
you. 

"  Oh !  brother,  we  send  you  our  love  and  our  kisses,  father  and  I. 
I  fear  that  soon  they  must  come  from  me  alone.  We  pray  together 
every  night,  by  your  empty  bed,  for  your  safety.  Father  will  use  his 
influence,  after  your  recovery,  to  have  you  exchanged;  but  he  fears 
your  bravery  in  Pickett's  charge  will  make  the  Yankees  want  to  hold 
on  to  you.  The  whole  South  has  heard  of  you.  Oh !  Harry,  we  are 
so  proud. 

"  Lovingly  and  devotedly  yours, 

u  ELEANOR." 

As  he  finished  the  letter,  the  bell  in  the  college  chapel 
began  to  toll  ten  strokes  ;  soon  after  the  rustle  of  lawn 
and  quick  footsteps  were  heard  in  the  hallway.  Bour- 
land  was  more  joyous  now  ;  the  sudden  throb  of  his  heart 
was  an  ecstasy.  He  smoothed  the  sheets,  set  himself 
more  decorously  in  his  iron  bed,  and  like  a  caged  lion 
just  before  feeding  time,  he  restively  awaited  his  turn. 

That  rustle  of  lawn  indicates,  of  course,  that  a  lady 
was  the  cause  of  this  impatient  agitation.  She  was  a 
girl  of  the  village,  Margaret  Randall  by  name ;  one  of  the 
noble  women  who,  in  those  days  of  stress,  gave  their  time 
and  service  to  the  wounded.  Her  father  was  a  surgeon- 
general  in  the  Union  army,  and  the  daughter,  used  to  a 
heroic  atmosphere,  had  organized  a  village  relief  corps 
when  the  battle  began  around  Gettysburg.  It  was  she  to 
whom  Bourland  owed  his  life. 

At   first  he   was   simply   an    impersonality   to   her,   a 


64  HENRY   BOURLAND 

wounded  Confederate  officer.  Later  the  report  of  his 
bravery,  and  his  connection  with  the  dead  general,  Armi- 
stead,  gave  him  a  certain  glamour  of  distinction.  As 
she  saw  him  oftener,  his  ideas,  his  manners,  his  uncon 
scious  acts,  revealed  to  her  that  she  had  saved  a  member 
of  one  of  those  much-vaunted  "  first  families  "  of  Virginia. 
He  interested  her  like  a  distinguished  foreign  traveller. 
It  was  the  natural  curiosity  for  an  alien. 

At  last  a  chance  incident  opened  the  way  for  a  personal 
intimacy.  One  morning,  while  he  was  yet  too  weak  to 
hold  a  pen,  he  asked  her  to  write  a  letter  for  him,  and  he 
dictated  the  address  of  his  sister. 

"  Why!  "  she  exclaimed  in  surprise,  "  are  you  the  brother 
of  Eleanor  Bourland  of  Brayton?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  answered  with  a  smile.  "  There's 
not  much  left  of  me  after  the  battle ;  I  may  be  half  a 
brother ;  but  she  certainly  is  my  sister." 

"How  strange!  "  said  the  lady.  "  Why  didn't  I  think 
of  it  before?  Eleanor  and  I  were  schoolmates  at  Miss 
Harley's  in  Baltimore  for  two  years.  I  never  knew  her 
very  well ;  but  one  thing  I  shall  never  forget.  It  was  on 
a  half-holiday,  and  Edwin  Forrest  was  in  town  playing 
4  Lear.'  The  girls  all  wanted  to  go  to  the  matinee.  I 
was  ill  and  had  to  stay  at  home,  and  your  sister  stayed 
with  me  and  read  to  me  all  the  afternoon.  I  remember 
the  book.  It  was  'Guy  Livingstone.'  We  had  to  hide 
it  from  the  preceptress  on  inspection  days.  I  shall  never 
forget  her  kindness.  Didn't  you  ever  hear  her  speak  of 
Margaret  Randall?" 

If  he  had,  he  failed  to  remember  ;  but  he  did  not  want 
to  confess  it.  So  he  resorted  to  ruse  and  bold  impudence. 
He  put  his  hand  to  his  forehead,  as  if  he  were  raking  his 
memory. 

"  Let  me  see,"  he  mused.  "  There  was  Madge  Terhune, 
and  Grace  Carter;  and  there  was  Claire  Hollister,  and 
Margaret  Randall  —  oh!  yes,  I  remember  now;  they 
called  you  the  4  Angel  in  the  House.'  That  proves  it." 
His  eyes  shone  with  triumph  and  delight. 

"  I  know  you  are  feigning  now.  They  never  called  me 
that.  Admit  it,  sir,  you  never  have  heard  of  me." 


A   ROMANCE   IN   A   HOSPITAL  65 

He  saved  himself  in  a  double  meaning. 

"  I  am  a  Virginian.  I  come  from  the  state  of  the  axe  and 
cherry  tree ;  so  you  see  I  cannot  tell  a  lie." 

She  smiled,  but  did  not  force  the  question  further. 

It  was  the  beginning  of  an  acquaintance.  After  that 
they  were  no  longer  like  nurse  and  wounded  soldier  ;  they 
became,  gradually,  confidential  friends. 

To-day  she  was  a  long  time  in  coming  to  his  room.  The 
chapel  bell  struck  eleven.  Bourland  grew  uneasy.  At 
last  he  heard  a  step. 

She  stood  still  on  the  threshold,  framed  by  the  doorway 
into  a  picture. 

A  slender  girl  dressed  in  the  blue  of  forget-me-nots  ;  her 
countenance  clear,  with  a  trace  of  frailty,  showing  the 
faint  course  of  the  delicate  veins.  From  her  eyes,  as  from 
limpid  depths,  a  light  seemed  to  flow  and  expand,  like  an 
ethereal  substance. 

Resting  her  hands  on  the  uprights  of  the  doorway,  she 
leaned  out  of  the  picture  into  the  room.  To  Bourland  the 
air  suddenly  became  tremulous  and  cool. 

"  Good  morning,  Captain ;  how  is  the  bold  rebel  to-day  ? 
Oh!  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  mean  Major.  I  do  get  you  all 
so  mixed  up."  The  voice  was  a  subdued  contralto ;  —  the 
note  which  one  leaning  down  hears  in  the  bubbling  of  a 
spring. 

"  Still  rebellious,"  he  answered,  "  but  a  captive ;  there 
fore  I'm  harmless.  Won't  you  come  in?" 

His  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her  face  as  on  a  target. 

"  I  can't  stay  to-day.  The  others  have  kept  me  too 
long." 

The  pleasure  on  his  face  grew  into  pain. 

"I've  just  written  a  last  letter  for  one  poor  fellow  from 
Indiana.  The  fever  has  been  too  much  for  him  ;  he  will 
die  to-morrow,"  she  said  sadly. 

A  pause  without  a  word,  while  the  clock  beat  out  its 
hammer  and  anvil  monotony. 

"If  I  can't  stay,"  she  continued,  walking  into  the 
room,  "I'll  leave  these  as  substitutes."  She  put  a  hand 
ful  of  sweet-pea  blossoms  into  a  glass  of  water.  "  They 


66  HENRY   BOURLAKD 

came  from  our  garden.  The  other  men  wanted  to  have 
them,  but  I  refused  and  told  them  they  were  for  their 
betters."  Her  laugh  filled  the  room  and  flew  out  of  the 
window. 

Pleasure  loomed  up  once  more,  golden,  upon  his 
countenance. 

She  came  to  the  bedside  and  put  her  hands  upon  his 
pillow. 

"  It  is  very  hot.     Let  me  turn  it  for  you." 

He  raised  his  head  and  then  fell  back  on  the  cool 
linen  with  a  thrill. 

"  Did  you  pluck  those  flowers  yourself  ? "  he  asked 
with  an  imperceptible  catch  in  his  throat. 

"  Certainly,"  she  replied  without  the  least  constraint. 

"  Did  you  have  me  in  mind  when  you  did  so  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  came  the  answer  quickly,  frankly.  "  You  and 
a  good  many  other  things,"  she  added  with  the  trace  of 
an  after- thought. 

He  reached  out,  took  three  blossoms,  and  then  veiling 
his  intention  in  an  endeavor  to  catch  their  fragrance,  he 
put  them  to  his  lips.  But  she  saw  the  deed.  In  her 
embarrassment  she  turned  to  study  the  winter  scene  of  a 
wall  picture. 

He  waited  until  she  looked  toward  him  once  more. 

"They  are  magic  herbs,  and  they  give  new  life." 
Again  he  pressed  them  gently  to  his  lips. 

"  Why,  what  a  romantic  rebel  you  are  !  "  she  broke  out 
derisively. 

"I  feel  my  blood  tingle  with  new  energy,"  he  con 
tinued.  It  was  a  presumption,  tentatively  put  out,  like 
a  hand  groping  in  the  darkness. 

"Well,  if  that's  all  you  need  to  recover,  I'll  have  our 
man  bring  you  down  some  every  day." 

"  There  isn't  any  magic  in  a  man.  You  must  bring 
them  yourself."  The  first  phrase  was  uttered  with  non 
chalance  ;  the  second  with  the  authority  of  a  conqueror. 

"  Indeed  !  "  she  cried  out.  "  I  must,  must  I  ?  I  must 
take  my  orders,  too,  from  a  rebel  and  a  prisoner.  Don't 
you  think  you  are  much  too  dictatorial  and  presumptu- 


*'  *  Why,  what  a  romantic  rebel  you  are ! '  she  broke  out  derisively." 


A   ROMANCE   IN   A   HOSPITAL  67 

ous  ? "  The  quality  of  her  rebuke  was  too  complex  to 
be  defined  ;  it  was  laughter  with  a  tang  of  defiant  resent 
ment,  and  something  more. 

He  looked  at  her,  as  at  a  gun  sight,  half-closing  his 
eyes.  He  was  taking  sure  aim.  His  words  possessed  a 
tacit,  an  esoteric  meaning. 

"You  must  do  it ;  and  you  will." 

Two  scared  rabbit's  eyes  quivered  and  blinked  above 
two  cheeks  that  suddenly  turned  as  red  as  poppies  in  a 
field  of  wheat. 

Neither,  for  a  moment,  could  think  of  anything  to 
relieve  the  tension. 

"  Did  you  bring  me  that  book  ? "  he  asked  finally,  in 
a  voice  wherein  carelessness  and  exultation  strove  for 
precedence. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  huskily,  almost  inaudibly  ;  and 
without  looking  at  him,  she  put  the  book  in  his  hand. 

He  took  it,  studied  the  title-page,  apparently  ;  and  she, 
seizing  the  opportunity,  slipped  away. 

"  Good-by  !  I'm  late,"  came  to  his  ears,  like  an  echo 
from  the  hallway. 

The  atmosphere  of  the  room  rose  at  once  to  its  former 
intolerable  temperature. 

All  that  afternoon  he  lay  reading  the  book.  It  was 
one  of  the  latest  volumes  of  the  English  laureate,  the 
"  Idylls  of  the  King."  He  read  on  and  on,  until  he  came  to 
the  legend  of  Launcelot  and  Elaine  ;  over  that  he  lingered 
and  mused.  It  seemed  to  him  an  allegory  of  his  own 
experience.  His  mind  travelled  in  a  parallel  line,  bearing 
in  thought  this  Northern  girl,  who  had  taken  him  out  of 
the  clutches  of  death,  and  who,  as  he  confidently  believed, 
was  irresistibly  disclosing,  as  a  woman  will  to  a  man  of 
strength,  the  untarnished  treasure  of  a  maiden  heart. 

He  lay  upon  a  delicious  couch  of  rapture.  He  seemed 
to  be  floating  in  a  warm,  joyous  sea  —  buoyant  like  an 
unfreighted  ship  just  launched  upon  the  waves  to  sail  in 
quest  of  the  land  of  El  Dorado. 

Then  he  read  on  until  he  came  to  the  gloomy  tragedy, 
the  breaking  up  of  the  Round  Table  and  the  passing  of 


68  HENKY   BOUKLAND 

Arthur.  He  saw  the  heroic  leader  who  had  sworn  to 
break  the  heathen  and  uphold  the  Christ;  he  saw  him 
betrayed  by  his  sinful  queen,  forsaken  by  his  recreant 
knights,  left  all  alone  with  a  remnant,  to  fight  that  last, 
dim,  weird  battle  of  the  West  on  the  sandy  wastes  of  the 
sea.  He  heard  the  gray  king,  overwhelmed,  everything 
gone,  striving  to  comfort  the  solitary  retainer  beside  him 
with  melancholy  consolation. 

"The  old  order  changeth,  yielding  place  to  new, 
And  God  fulfils  himself  in  many  ways." 

Bourland  put  down  the  book.  The  Quaker's  prophecy 
echoed  in  his  brain  like  ominous  thunder,  "  The  cause  of 
the  South  is  doomed."  And  with  that  came  the  picture  of 
his  father,  a  knight  of  the  latter  day,  old,  feeble,  his  work 
done,  passing  mournfully  into  some  misty  land  of  Avilion  ; 
and  the  Hall,  the  dear  old  Hall- 

A  dark  phantasmagoria  slowly  took  shape  in  his  brain  : 
of  shadows  and  forces  of  destruction  closing  about  his 
home. 

He  threw  the  book  aside  and,  unnerved  by  the  long 
strain  of  confinement,  he  sobbed  like  a  beaten  child. 


CHAPTER   IX 

A   LOVER   AND    A   SPHINX 

THE  next  day,  for  some  reason,  Margaret  Randall  failed 
to  make  her  usual  visit  to  the  hospital. 

Bouiiand  lay  waiting  —  waiting  —  long  after  the  bell 
struck  the  hour  that  hitherto  had  brought  her,  like 
Aurora,  to  glorify  his  days.  He  began  to  realize  how 
necessary  she  was  to  his  comfort.  Momentarily  expectant 
of  her  coming,  with  the  sound  of  every  footstep  his  heart 
beats  quickened  into  frantic  rappings.  And  when  the 
sounds  died  away  in  the  resonance  of  the  corridor,  an 
emptiness  oppressed  him  like  a  weight,  and  drained  the 
vitality  from  his  body  and  nerves.  Into  the  dark  void  of 
his  closed  sight  there  floated  the  figure  of  the  girl, 
resplendent  with  a  divine  womanhood.  In  his  ears 
rang  the  echoes  of  her  voice ;  the  voice  that,  as  he  lay 
half  conscious  on  the  battle-field,  seemed  to  come  from  an 
angel  of  mercy;  the  voice  that  afterward  had  so  often 
lulled  his  sufferings  into  delicious  reveries;  the  voice 
that,  as  their  acquaintance  grew  into  confidences,  human 
ized  the  angel  of  mercy  into  the  variable  girl,  tender, 
perverse,  elusive. 

When  she  did  not  come,  Bourland  began  to  hear  a  little 
love-god,  cradled  in  his  own  heart,  crying  like  a  hungry 
infant  in  the  lonely  darkness. 

His  longings  were  startled  by  a  sudden  fear.  He  re 
membered  his  words,  her  abrupt  departure. 

"  I've  driven  her  away,"  said  Bouiiand  to  himself  bit 
terly.  "  She  is  no  light-o'-love,  to  be  won  by  boldness, 
dash,  assurance.  My  audacity  has  insulted  the  dignity  of 
love.  Strangers  —  and  only  a  few  weeks  !  I  have  mis 
taken  her  kindness  for  a  deeper  feeling.  I  have  taken 


70  HENRY   BOURLAND 

advantage  of  her  defencelessness.  Absence  is  her  only 
protection  against  my  arrogance.  She  is  staying  away. 
What  else  could  a  modest  woman  do  ?  " 

She  took  in  his  estimation  a  more  elevated  rank  of  gen 
tility.  He  recalled  how  in  the  first  days  he  had  scoffed 
at  the  idea  of  her  social  equality  ;  how  he  had  mused  on 
her  charms  as  a  merely  diverting  pastime  ;  he  —  a  mem 
ber  of  Virginia's  proudest  aristocracy;  she  —  the  daughter 
of  some  Yankee  doctor.  He  was  inclined  to  revert  now 
to  his  former  prejudice  as  a  consolation.  "  But,"  he  con 
sidered,  "  I  have  not  acted  like  a  gentleman. "  He  squirmed 
under  the  charge  of  an  accusing  conscience. 

This  mood  became  intolerable,  and  he  sought  escape 
from  it.  "  Perhaps,"  he  thought,  "  she  is  only  detained 
by  some  duty  at  home.  Several  times  before  she  has  failed 
to  come.  She  will  be  here  to-morrow,"  he  reflected,  nib 
bling  at  a  morsel  of  comfort.  But  it  was  a  stony  morsel, 
and  gave  him  no  sustenance.  For  the  bell  unfeelingly 
tolled  off  the  hours  of  the  afternoon,  and  the  sleepless  night 
and  all  the  next  anxious  day,  without  bringing  the  lady. 

The  third  day  he  was  stung  venomously  by  another  sug 
gestion.  "  Ah  !  "  he  thought,  and  the  idea  buzzed  like  a 
hornet,  "she  has  another  lover.  That  is  the  reason  for 
neglecting  me.  Let  a  girl  once  be  mastered  by  love  for  a 
man,  and  she  will  be  absolutely  heartless  toward  a  rival. 
That's  the  woman  of  it.  This  lover  is  doubtless  some  hat 
ter  or  tinker  or  jobber  in  the  Yankee  army  —  one  of  her 
own  kind  Her  love  for  him  made  her  take  pity  on  me. 
Yes,  that's  the  reason  she  has  left  me.  I've  made  a  fool 
of  myself.  Well,  I  wish  him  luck." 

He  sought  comfort  in  his  social  prejudices.  But  a 
frenzy  of  jealousy  scorched  him ;  the  burning  bed  of 
Montezuma  was  more  endurable.  The  vague  image  of 
the  rival  made  his  own  love  more  intense  and  kindled  his 
jealousy  to  a  white  heat,  which  finally  threw  him  into  a 
mental  disorder.  He  had  to  clutch,  at  times,  the  iron 
bar  of  the  bed  for  self-control. 

The  fourth  day  was  more  tolerable,  even  lighted  by 
gleams  of  joy.  "  How  stupid,"  he  said  to  himself  when, 


A  LOVER  AND  A   SPHINX  71 

after  a  reaction,  a  saner  judgment  prevailed.  "  How 
stupid  it  is  for  me  to  let  my  imagination  run  away  with 
my  common  sense.  This  rival  is  a  figment  of  my  own 
foolish  brain.  I  haven't  the  slightest  reason  to  believe  in 
his  existence.  The  real  cause  of  her  absence  is  as  plain 
as  the  sun.  She  really  does  love  me,  and  therefore  stays 
away.  After  my  emphatic  insinuations,  how  could  she 
do  otherwise  and  preserve  her  self-respect  ?  She  can't 
visit  me  now.  She  can't  seek  after  me.  She  must  be 
sought.  God  bless  her!  What  a  fine-grained  lady  she 
is!" 

This  conclusion  came  like  a  pardon  to  one  condemned 
to  be  hanged.  It  made  him  feel  anew  the  joy  of  living. 
He  began  to  reenforce  this  last  opinion  with  recollections 
of  the  unconscious  acts,  which  undoubtedly  betrayed 
her  hidden  emotions.  He  recalled  her  rapt  eyes  as  he 
narrated  his  adventures  in  the  field ;  the  tremor  of  relief 
when  he  told  how,  while  within  the  Union  lines,  he  barely 
escaped  capture  and  the  death  of  a  spy ;  the  many  occa 
sions  when  his  voice  took  on  a  lover's  playful  tenderness, 
and  hers,  in  response,  fell  into  a  gentle  modulation,  a  deli 
cious  croon  of  affection  as  if  her  mood  were  controlled  by 
his  own. 

He  was  nibbling  now  at  no  morsels  ;  he  was  feasting  at 
a  banquet  of  epicures.  And  the  feast  lasted  all  through 
one  short  joyous  day.  Then  a  new  mood  succeeding, 
he  saw  that  this  was  only  a  Barmecide  feast  of  the 
imagination. 

The  disenchantment  came  by  a  process  of  destructive 
criticism  —  an  agnostic  attitude  of  inquiry  which  soon 
drenched  the  golden  glamour  of  fancy  and  viewed  the 
whole  matter  in  the  frigid  atmosphere  of  fact.  Those 
rapt  eyes  —  why,  they  were  due  simply  to  the  absorbing 
novelty  of  his  adventures ;  a  girl  reads  an  exciting  book 
with  just  such  rapt  eagerness.  And  that  tremor  of  relief 
at  his  escape  —  well,  that  was  explained  by  his  talent  as 
a  persuasive  narrator  ;  he  recalled  in  this  connection  that 
he  had  once  recited  some  ridiculous  doggerel  to  a  girl  in 
such  heroic  tones  that,  at  the  end,  she  murmured  an  enthu- 


72  HENEY   BOURLAND 

siastic  "how  beautiful."  And  as  for  those  modulations 
of  the  voice,  those  sweet  croonings,  now  that  he  revived 
the  circumstances,  they  always  occurred  when  she,  tired 
with  previous  visits  to  the  wounded,  came  to  see  him  last. 
Those  delicious  modulations  of  affection  were  merely  the 
languor  of  weariness,  and  nothing  more. 

These  confirmatory  proofs  having  been  examined  by 
reason  and  common  sense,  and  having  been  found  mere 
delusions,  the  main  premise,  that  she  loved  him,  and 
stayed  away  for  that  reason,  fell  also  into  discredit.  The 
first  despair  laid  hold  of  him  again,  and  a  host  of  blue 
devils  danced  about  their  victim. 

At  the  end  of  a  week  the  situation  was  unchanged, 
except  that  he  was  totally  exhausted  by  this  morbid 
psychology,  and  didn't  have  enough  vitality  left  to  feel 
at  all. 

One  night,  just  after  the  bell  had  struck  two,  the  ab 
surdity  of  this  hospital  romance  broke  upon  him.  It 
was  but  a  nightmare,  nurtured  and  fed  by  his  physical 
weakness  and  his  temporary  seclusion  from  contact  with 
the  other  influences  of  life.  He  was  a  Southerner  ;  she 
a  Northern  girl :  between  them  was  an  unbridgeable 
chasm.  Besides,  he  was  a  prisoner,  soon  to  be  sent  away 
to  his  pen,  and  there  was  little  hope  that  they  would  ever 
see  each  other  again.  He  swept  away  the  romantic 
structure  from  his  imagination  as  a  child,  after  the  joy 
of  building,  destroys  its  house  of  blocks. 

And  what  remained  after  that  act  of  destruction  ?  The 
empty-hearted  man,  hungering,  as  men  have  always  done 
with  insatiable  desire,  for  the  eternally  feminine.  And 
there  remained,  too,  in  his  mind,  the  unshakable  convic 
tion  that  he  had  found  the  eternally  feminine  incarnate 
in  this  Northern  girl  who,  a  few  days  ago,  had  stood  there 
in  the  doorway,  a  portrait  in  a  frame,  and  then,  Galatea- 
like,  had  bloomed  and  expanded  into  life. 

The  little  love-god,  cradled  in  his  heart,  was  wide 
awake,  wailing,  wailing  for  his  nurse. 

Two  days  later  Bourland's  heart  thumped  against  his 
breast  like  a  brazen  knocker.  Suddenly,  without  the 


A   LOVER   AND   A   SPHINX  73 

least  premonition  of  her  coming,  the  girl  appeared  at  the 
door. 

"  Oh  !  I'm  so  glad,"  she  said  joyously.     "  I  was  afraid 
you  would  be  gone,  and  I  shouldn't  be  able  to  say 


Bourland  shut  his  eyes  as  before  a  blazing  sun.  The 
nightmare  of  the  past  ten  days  floated  in  the  starry  dark 
ness  of  his  veiled  sight.  He  put  his  hand  over  his  fore 
head  as  a  test  of  his  wakefulness.  He  opened  his  eyes 
and  beheld  the  distinctness  of  the  reality.  He  could  not 
speak  for  joy  ;  he  dared  not  speak  for  caution. 

"  Well,  Sir  Rebel  Haughty,  aren't  you  glad  to  see 
me  ?  "  she  exclaimed  impatiently. 

"  Glad  to  see  you  ?  "  he  replied  in  the  monotone  of  a 
daze.  His  eyes  were  focussed  upon  her  face,  and  shot 
forth  the  gleams,  hectic  and  hungry,  of  a  starved  wolf. 
Then  he  fell  backward  on  the  pillow.  Waves  of  rapture 
broke  over  him  like  the  surf  of  the  sea.  He  quivered  in 
every  limb. 

She  came  nearer  and  bent  down  over  him. 

"  Have  you  had  a  relapse  of  fever  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  answered  faintly. 

He  lay  there  as  helpless  as  a  new-born  bird  in  its  nest. 
She  put  her  hand  to  his  forehead  and  felt  the  throb,  throb, 
throb  of  his  blood,  as  it  vibrated  under  the  electric  thrill 
of  her  touch. 

"  You  still  have  a  high  fever,"  she  said  tenderly.  "  I 
expected  to  find  you  well.  Nurses  are  of  some  use,  aren't 
they?" 

There  it  was,  the  same  sweet  voice.  He  feared  to  move, 
to  speak,  to  look  —  lest  something  should  break  the  magic 
of  the  enchantment.  The  air  seemed  flashing  with  sparks. 

"Where  have  you  been  so  long?"  The  prolonged 
vowel  of  the  last  word  almost  betrayed  him.  Within  the 
little  love-god  was  struggling  to  cry  out,  but  he  took  it 
by  the  throat  and  choked  its  voice. 

"  I  have  been  away  with  my  mother.  She  was  taken  ill 
suddenly  and  ordered  to  the  seaside.  I  had  to  go  on  the 
instant." 


74  HENRY   BOURLAND 

His  eyes  opened  wide,  and  a  gasp,  deep  as  the  depth  of 
his  past  agony,  escaped  him. 

"  Then  you  didn't  just  stay  away?  " 

"Just  stay  away?"  she  repeated.  "What  do  you 
mean?" 

"Because  I  offended  you." 

"  Offended  me  ?  "  Her  face  wore  the  bewilderment  of 
one  suddenly  aroused  from  deep  sleep. 

"  I  thought  I  was  rude  to  you." 

"  I  don't  remember  it." 

He  scanned  her  face  as  a  lawyer  does  an  opposing  wit 
ness.  There  was  no  trace  of  hidden  thought,  nor  the 
slightest  increased  tension  of  the  muscles. 

"  She  hasn't  had  any  idea  of  love  in  her  mind," 
thought  Bourland.  Hope  and  Fear  began  to  wrestle  in 
his  imagination. 

"  Look,"  he  said  timidly.  "  I  have  preserved  the  spoils 
of  your  last  visit."  He  pointed  to  the  withered  blossoms 
in  the  glass.  "  They  were  very  poor  substitutes,"  he  added, 
smiling. 

"  I  should  think  so,"  she  replied  with  a  matter-of-fact- 
ness  that  grated  on  his  nerves  ;  and  then  without  more 
ado  she  took  the  glass  and  threw  the  flowers  out  of  the 
window. 

He  had  called  upon  her  to  stop,  but  with  no  avail. 

"  Oh !  I'll  bring  you  some  fresh  ones  to-morrow,"  she 
said,  speaking  as  a  green  grocer  might  do  to  a  daily 
customer. 

"  Now  tell  me  what  you  have  been  doing  during  my 
absence,"  she  went  on,  taking  the  chair  beside  him.  "  Give 
a  full  report  to  your  nurse." 

"  I  have  been  thinking  of  your  kindness  to  me." 

"  Oh  ! "  she  answered  with  a  deprecating  toss  of  the 
head,  "  that  was  an  act  of  simple  charity  ;  anybody  would 
have  done  the  same." 

Fear  flung  Hope  upon  the  ground. 

So,  after  all,  she  had  merely  been  nursing  an  imperson 
ality.  It  was  only  a  modern  instance  of  the  parable  of 
the  good  Samaritan  and  the  wounded  man  by  the  wayside. 


A  LOVER  AND  A   SPHINX  75 

"  That  reminds  me,"  she  continued  after  a  pause,  "  iny 
father  is  home  on  a  furlough  and,  hearing  about  you,  he 
insists  that  this  charity  be  extended.  He  knows  your 
father.  They  were  both  Whigs  and  met  several  times  at 
political  conventions.  Now  that  we  have  the  son  a  pris 
oner,  he  wants,  for  his  sake,  to  have  you  spend  the  last 
days  of  your  convalescence  at  our  house.  It  may  make 
a  pleasant  change  for  you.  He  will  have  you  paroled." 

"  You  don't  mean  it  ?  "  cried  Bourland,  eagerly.  "  Oh  ! 
this  is  too  much.  You'll  make  a  Yankee  of  me  with  your 
kindness." 

"  Of  course  I  objected.  But  I  gave  in  finally.  If  I 
hadn't  been  attending  you,  or  if  you  were  the  only  man  in 
the  hospital,  it  would  be  different.  But  it  does  look  strange 
to  take  in  a  rebel  when  there  are  hundreds  of  our  boys 
about,  doesn't  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  assented  Bourland  ;  "  but  as  a  Calvinist  would 
say,  'things  don't  go  by  merit  in  this  world,  but  by 
election.'" 

She  did  not  pay  much  attention  to  the  last  remark. 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  come  really  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"  Oh,"  she  returned  with  a  pretty  shrug,  "  I'm  not 
concerned  in  it.  It's  a  matter  between  my  father  and  you. 
He'll  come  to  give  you  the  invitation.  I  shall  be  glad  to 
receive  any  guest  of  my  father,  and  you  particularly  ;  for, 
to  be  frank,  I  have  come  to  like  you  very  much.  You 
are  the  most  interesting,  perhaps,  of  all  the  soldiers  in 
the  hospital.  I've  enjoyed  talking  with  you,  and  get 
ting  your  Southern  ideas  ;  they  are  so  different  from 
mine." 

He  saw  her  standing  on  the  other  side  of  the  unbridge 
able  chasm. 

"  Oh  !  what  a  fool  I've  been  !  what  a  fool  !  "  said 
Bourland  to  himself.  Gall  seemed  to  trickle  through  all 
his  veins  and  curdle  the  blood.  The  little  love-god  was 
gasping,  suffocating,  writhing. 

"  Now  I  must  go,"  said  Miss  Randall ;  "  I  came  in  to 
see  you  first  to-day,  contrary  to  custom.  But  that  is 
excusable.  I  was  very  anxious  about  you,  because  I  have 


r6  HENRY   BOURLAND 

had  your  case  especially  on  my  mind.  Here  are  two  of 
the  latest  newspapers." 

She  laid  them  down  beside  him,  and  put  her  hand  again 
to  his  forehead,  which  was  now  somewhat  cooler. 

"  Your  fever  has  gone.  Perhaps  I've  had  a  good  effect 
upon  you,"  she  said,  smiling  sweetly,  and  looking  into  his 
face  thoughtfully. 

Then  the  sphinx  turned  and  went  out  of  the  room. 


CHAPTER   X 

THE  PRISONER   FAILS   TO   ESCAPE 

BOURLAKD  awaited  the  father's  visit  with  a  certain 
solicitude.  The  next  day  Mr.  Randall  came  and  intro 
duced  himself.  He  was  dressed  in  full  uniform,  and  the 
insignia  of  his  rank  and  his  reserved  yet  genial  deport 
ment  allayed  the  last  aristocratic  scruples  of  the  Virgin 
ian.  "  He  must  be  a  man  of  high  standing,"  thought 
Bourland.  He  gulped  down  an  emotion  of  relief.  Mar 
garet  seemed  nearer  than  ever. 

"  I  want  you  to  come  spend  the  last  days  of  your  con 
valescence  with  us,"  said  the  surgeon-general,  after  some 
preliminary  conversation.  "I  remember  your  father 
well.  We  spent  several  pleasant  evenings  together  dur 
ing  the  Whig  Convention  of  '56." 

Bourland  made  a  feeble  protest  against  such  excessive 
kindness  to  an  enemy. 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  said  the  Yankee,  "  you  know  what 
the  good  Book  says,  '  If  thine  enemy  hunger,  feed  him  ; 
if  he  thirst,  give  him  drink.'  If  we  had  only  taken  this 
command  more  to  heart  years  ago,  your  people  and  mine 
would  not  now  be  at  each  other's  throats.  War  is  bad 
enough  ;  let  us  take  what  pleasure  we  can  out  of  it.  I'll 
get  you  a  parole  as  soon  as  you  can  leave  your  bed." 

Bourland  thanked  him  with  effusive  gratitude.  Two 
days  later  he  hobbled  downstairs  on  his  crutches,  and  was 
driven  to  the  Randall  home. 

It  was  a  plain,  old,  substantial  house.  There  were  scars 
on  its  bricks  and  ledges  ;  for  the  Confederate  sharp 
shooters  had  occupied  it  during  the  battle.  The  walls 
were  marked  by  the  dents  of  bullets  and  shells,  the  ivy 
had  been  torn  away,  and  the  woodwork  in  some  places 
was  scorched  and  splintered. 

77 


78  HENRY   BOURLAND 

"  You  make  me  feel  very  much  at  home,"  said  Bour- 
land,  after  he  had  been  there  twelve  hours.  Before  long 
he  discovered  a  reason  for  their  kindness. 

"  That  was  our  only  boy,"  said  Mrs.  Randall,  showing 
him  a  portrait  one  morning  when  they  were  alone.  "  He 
would  have  been  just  about  your  age  now,  if  he  had 
lived.  And  I  suppose  he  would  have  been  a  soldier  too." 

Margaret  continued  her  visits  to  the  hospital,  and  she 
was  absent  much  of  the  day.  The  two  men  spent  their 
time  reading  the  papers  and  discussing  the  war  issues. 
There  was  an  absence  of  rancor  in  the  attitude  of  the 
Union  man,  and  before  it  Bourland's  bitter  hostility 
toward  Yankees  was  shamed  into  a  reluctant  admiration. 
Previously  he  had  scorned  the  Northern  utilitarian  ideal 
of  life.  But  gradually  his  provincial  eyes  were  opened 
to  the  sublime  purpose  of  the  North  —  the  resolution  to 
guarantee  the  unity  of  civilization  in  America. 

It  was  founded,  he  began  to  discern,  not  upon  jealousy 
and  fanaticism,  but  upon  conviction,  necessity,  and  unself 
ish  devotion  to  a  conception  of  liberty  too  large  for  him, 
with  his  Southern  traditions,  to  comprehend  sympatheti 
cally.  When  the  talk  came  to  argument,  he  maintained 
his  position  with  logic.  And  although  he  became  less 
vehement  in  his  opinions,  his  faith  in  the  righteousness  of 
his  own  cause  remained  unshaken. 

All  this  while  another  matter  gave  him  far  deeper  con 
cern.  Margaret,  seen  in  her  home,  grew  more  and  more 
adorable.  Secretly,  his  visit  became  like  the  tortures  of 
Tantalus.  He  watched  her  motions,  listened  to  catch  her 
words,  strove  to  divine  her  thoughts,  and  hungered. 

But  she  went  about,  utterly  unconstrained,  and  treated 
him  as  she  might  the  brother  who  was  gone. 

Smarting  under  the  memory  of  his  mistaken  assurance 
of  conquest,  he  was  morbidly  reticent  about  his  own  feel 
ing,  which  had  now  grown  into  a  consuming  passion. 
Besides,  he  was  a  guest  in  the  house,  and  the  ease  of 
opportunity  to  reveal  his  love  only  increased  the  timidity 
of  his  sensitive  pride.  A  single  word,  a  mere  intimation 
of  his  single  desire,  might  exorcise  the  gracious  angel  of 


THE   PRISONER   FAILS   TO   ESCAPE  79 

hospitality,  and  debase  the  rare,  exalted  spirit  of  this 
friendship  of  enemies.  It  might  humiliate  him  as  an 
ingrate,  and  he  shunned  such  an  indiscretion  like  the 
unpardonable  sin. 

She  was  frank  and  cordial  —  ominously  so.  She  was  al 
ways  within  reach,  but  beyond  his  grasp.  She  remained 
a  sphinx,  and  his  mute  questionings  were  vain.  She 
plagued  him  like  the  Liebchen  of  the  poet  Heine,  who 
was  more  merciless  than  all  the  other  maidens  because 
she  would  neither  love  nor  hate. 

"Little  love-god,  you  must  die  without  ever  being 
born,"  murmured  Bourland  to  the  motherless  little  infant 
in  his  heart. 

So  the  days  drifted  on,  until  at  last  the  order  came  ter 
minating  his  parole,  and  commanding  him  to  report  at 
headquarters.  He  was  to  be  sent  down  to  Fort  Delaware. 

On  the  afternoon  before  the  day  of  his  departure  he 
went  for  a  ramble  with  Margaret  to  a  hill  above  the  town. 
He  had  become  reconciled  to  the  idea  that  this  was  the 
end. 

Halfway  up  the  hill,  his  strength  gave  out,  and  they 
sat  down  upon  a  rock.  He  carried  a  copy  of  the  "  Princess," 
which,  that  very  morning,  he  had  been  reading  aloud  to 
her.  As  he  opened  the  book  at  random,  his  eyes  caught 
the  first  lines  of  that  song  of  hallowed  regret  :  — 

"  Tears,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what  they  mean, 
Tears  from  the  depths  of  some  divine  despair 
Rise  in  the  heart,  and  gather  to  the  eyes 
In  looking  on  the  happy  autumn  fields, 
And  thinking  of  the  days  that  are  no  more." 

He  read  the  lines  with  low,  deep-drawn  fervor,  and  be 
fore  he  came  to  the  last  he  knew  that  his  lashes  were 
moist,  and  that  he,  a  soldier,  was  a  craven  lover.  He 
dared  not  turn  his  eyes  toward  her  ;  he  looked  out  upon 
the  landscape,  the  fields  of  autumn,  and  they  seemed  over 
charged  with  that  divinity  of  the  poet's  despair.  He 
wanted  to  cry  out  for  the  mercy  of  God. 

Above,  the  sky  hung  cloudless,  save  in  the  west,  where 
a  patch  of  fleece,  silver-gray,  tempered  the  rays  of  the  sun. 


80  HENKY   BOUKLAND 

The  season  was  nearing  the  fulness  of  its  splendor. 
Wide  ranges  of  grass  in  the  meadow,  renewed  by  the  Sep 
tember  rains,  sharpened  the  air  with  a  pungent  aroma. 
Everywhere  —  in  field  and  lane  and  highway  —  the  golden- 
rod  thrust  upward  its  multitudinous  plumes.  The  trees 
ran  the  full  gamut  of  color,  and  the  leaves,  in  their  spiral 
courses,  were  dropping  reluctantly,  at  the  wisp  of  the 
wind,  upon  the  sear  beds  beneath  in  wood  and  copse. 
The  birds  of  passage  were  faintly  vocal.  Thistledown, 
frail  tenuous  argosies  bearing  seed,  went  sailing  off  to 
nowhere  on  imperceptible  currents.  A  vapor,  deepening 
to  pearl,  incense  from  the  altars  of  the  dying  season,  rose 
and  veiled  the  rim  of  the  landscape  like  a  diaphanous  cur 
tain.  Charged  with  the  emanations  of  decaying  life,  the 
air  stung  the  breath  like  an  etcher's  acid.  The  blood 
bounded  with  unwonted  speed,  and  then,  after  the  spurt, 
gave  way  to  a  languor  like  the  approach  of  sleep.  All 
Nature  was  at  one  with  the  mood,  and  distilled  with  pro 
fusion  the  essence  of  melancholy.  It  was  the  close  of  her 
career,  and  as  a  fitting  ceremonial  she  had  decked  herself 
in  her  grandest  attire,  and  was  passing  in  royal  splendor. 

They  drank  in,  both  of  them,  that  divine  essence  of  the 
scene ;  each  in  a  silence.  A  word,  lightly  spoken  by 
either,  might  have  snapped  the  tension.  At  last  he  ven 
tured, —  not  to  speak,  —  but  to  repeat,  "The  autumn  fields 
— the  days  that  are  no  more,"  and  he  unconsciously  stressed 
the  phrase  as  if  that  happiness  might  have  been  their  own. 

He  looked  at  her  sadly  ;  she  was  visibly  impressed. 

"  I'm  glad  I'm  a  prisoner,"  he  murmured.  "  A  captive. 
It  has  given  me  some  new  ideas.  It  has  given  me  a  truer 
conception  of  your  people  and  their  motives.  It  took  a 
bullet  to  drive  it  in,  though.  No,  I  don't  mean  that.  It 
was  a  woman's  kindness." 

Her  face,  he  could  see  from  her  profile,  was  beaming 
with  radiance  ;  she  was  looking  down,  tearing  idly  at  a 
tuft  of  grass. 

"  But  still,"  he  continued,  "  I  must  fight  for  my  own 
cause;  for  I  believe  it  is  right." 

"I  couldn't  —  honor  —  you  unless  you  did  that."     The 


THE  PRISONER  FAILS   TO  ESCAPE  81 

hesitation  about  the  word,  and  a  subtle  indecision  in  her 
voice,  sent  galvanic  charges  to  the  ends  of  every  nerve  in 
his  body.  His  fingers  twitched. 

"  Don't  j^ou  feel  any  animosity  toward  me  ?  " 

"I  suppose  I  ought  to,  but  I  don't."  The  tuft  of  grass 
was  now  entirely  uprooted. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  answered.  "  I  shall  fight  now  more 
like  a  Christian."  A  pause.  "Suppose  I'm  exchanged, 
and  we  come  north  again  on  another  invasion ;  then  I'm 
going  to  make  you  my  prisoner."  His  blood  began  to  burn 
his  veins  in  his  eager,  suppressed  excitement.  His  eyes 
made  clear  the  ambiguity  of  his  words. 

Rose  tints  broke  forth  all  over  her  cheeks  ;  her  droop 
ing  glances  betrayed  her  weakness,  and  gave  him  permis 
sion  to  speak. 

"  Do  you  know  the  most  beautiful  lines  I  read  you  this 
morning  ?  Do  you  remember  the  place  where  the  princess 
is  nursing  the  wounded  prince ;  where  he,  in  a  delirium, 
proclaims  his  love  ;  where,  in  a  supreme  moment,  their  two 
lives  merge  into  one,  fitting  each  other  like  perfect  music 
into  noble  words?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  trembling  boldly.  "  I  know  the 
passage  by  heart." 

"  Suppose,"  he  went  on,  manlike,  recovering  his  compos 
ure,  "  suppose  the  prince  had  been  a  beggar,  what  do  you 
think  the  princess  would  have  done  ?  " 

"I  don't  know." 

"  What  would  you  have  done  ?  " 

"I  should  have  loved  him  just  the  same." 

The  word  "  love  "  from  her  lips  made  him  courageously 
militant. 

He  began  to  press  the  attack,  and  to  force  her  to  open 
her  guard. 

"  Would  you  have  loved  a  pauper  ?  " 

"  No  man  is  a  pauper  who  can  bring  to  a  woman  the 
riches  of  a  great  love.  A  true  woman  desires  that  more 
than  princes'  favors."  She  had  recovered  her  composure, 
too,  in  this  general  defence  of  her  sex. 

He  saw  her  heart  open  to  direct  thrust,  but  still  uncer- 


82  HENRY   BOUKLAND 

tain,  he  desired  to  fence  for  a  surety.  Oh!  how  inex 
pressibly  sweet  it  was  to  him — this  slow  unfolding,  this 
revelation  of  love.  He  was  tempted  to  prolong  it. 

"  I  must  leave  you  to-morrow  —  to  go  to  some  dingy  old 
prison.  Are  you  sorry  ?  " 

"  I  am  glad  you  are  a  prisoner,''  she  replied  with  a  dan 
gerous  evasion. 

"  Why  ?  "  he  asked  in  surprise. 

"Because." 

"Because  of  what?" 

"  Oh!  just  because.  That's  enough.  I  plead  a  woman's 
privilege." 

"  But  I  must  know  that  because."  He  commanded  like 
a  martinet. 

She  broke  into  a  laugh  of  mockery,  and  eluded  him. 

"  Because  otherwise,  stupid  I  you  would  go  back  into 
the  army  and  get  killed.  You  are  so  reckless." 

"  Would  you  care  ?  "  He  leaned  toward  her,  fiercely 
inquisitive. 

She  hesitated,  until  at  last  her  wits  protected  her. 

"  Why,  certainly  I  should,  after  all  my  trouble  in  nurs 
ing  you  back  to  life.  I  don't  want  all  my  pains  to  go  for 
nothing." 

She  was  concealing  something  under  the  persiflage,  and 
he  knew  it.  All  aglow  within  from  assurance  and  rapt 
urous  delight,  he  prepared  for  the  final  thrust.  He  leaned 
nearer  and  put  his  hand  over  hers,  and  said  coldly,  as  if 
hurt :  — 

"  Tell  me  one  thing  more.  Was  it  trouble  and  pain  for 
you?" 

There  was  no  evasion  now.  She  sprang  up  like  a 
startled  doe,  and  rushed  over  toward  the  fence.  She 
leaned  against  the  rail,  her  bosom  lifting  rebelliously. 

He  rose  and  followed  her,  and  then  spoke  —  not  like 
the  fencer,  but  like  the  pleading  lover,  long  denied. 

"  Margaret,  I  must  speak.  Give  me  one  little  grain  of 
hope.  Don't  send  me  away  in  despair.  I  love  you." 

She  turned  her  face  toward  him  at  the  sound  of  the  last 
words.  The  inward  light  that  always  played  so  quietly  in 


THE  PRISONER  FAILS   TO  ESCAPE  83 

the  depths  of  her  eyes  was  radiant  with  the  warm  effluence 
of  love.  Her  countenance  glowed  like  the  twilight  stars, 
and  pure  gems  of  liquid  beauty  came  forth  from  the  irre 
pressible  depths  of  joy.  "  Dearest,"  she  answered,  "  have 
you  not  divined  my  love  for  you  before  this  ?  You  are 
very  blind." 

He  bent  down  and  drew  her  toward  him,  into  the  tender 
bondage  of  his  arms  ;  and  in  the  strain  she  quivered,  as  if 
just  relieved  from  a  burden. 

The  sun  was  only  faintly  discernible  through  the  gath 
ering  vapors.  On  high  some  floating  clouds  were  rimmed 
with  edges  of  purple  and  crimson  and  silver,  while  far, 
far,  in  the  infinite  depths  of  the  heavens,  clear  and  crystal 
line,  there  glowed  with  delicate  faintness  a  pale  field  of 
chrysolite. 

The  chill  of  autumn  came  with  the  gathering  darkness, 
and  they  started  for  home.  On  the  way,  while  crossing  a 
meadow,  she  stopped  under  a  wide-branching  chestnut 
tree,  and,  reaching  her  arms  around  his  neck,  she  drew 
him  down  and  kissed  him — again — and  then  again. 

"  Oh  !  "  she  exclaimed,  with  a  pressure  of  reassurance, 
"I  was  so  afraid  my  prisoner  would  escape." 

He  wanted  to  fall  on  his  knees  and  worship  her,  there  in 
the  dusky  solitude  of  the  low-branching  tree,  but  she  ran, 
with  a  joyous  shout,  out  into  the  open  air. 

The  next  day  he  was  sent,  with  a  squad  of  prisoners, 
to  Fort  Delaware. 


BOOK   III 
LOVE  AMONG  THE  RUINS 


CHAPTER    XI 

LEE    AT    APPOMATTOX 

AT  four  o'clock  in  the'  afternoon  of  Palm  Sunday,  April  9, 
1865,  Henry  Bourland  was  sitting  with  some  Confed 
erate  officers  under  an  apple  tree  in  an  orchard  just  west 
of  Appomattox  Court  House.  It  was  a  group  almost 
statuesque  with  dejection. 

His  faith  in  the  success  of  the  Southern  cause  was  now 
well-nigh  gone.  The  last  two  years  had  brought  anxiety, 
fear,  and  finally  despair.  Gettysburg  had  marked  the 
crest  of  wave,  which,  since  that  defeat,  had  been  slowly 
subsiding  into  impotence. 

He  had  endured  six  months  as  a  prisoner  in  the  stone 
fortress  at  the  head  of  Delaware  Bay.  There  his  active 
nature,  pent  within  gloomy  walls,  chafed  for  freedom  like 
the  buoys  tugging  at  their  chains  just  off  the  shoals  of 
the  island.  True,  his  jailers  were  reasonably  considerate 
of  his  comfort,  and  the  sour  bread  of  captivity  was  sweet 
ened  by  frequent  letters  from  Margaret,  which  he  must 
forego  when  he  returned  to  his  own  army.  But,  in  spite 
of  all,  he  was  restive  to  regain  the  field.  At  the  end  of 
half  a  year,  he  was  exchanged.  A  lieutenant  colonel's 
commission  awaited  him,  and,  to  his  surprise,  an  appoint 
ment  as  aide  on  Lee's  staff. 

84 


LEE   AT   APPOMATTOX  85 

He  had  followed  the  fortunes  of  the  great  chieftain  all 
through  those  dreary  campaigns  in  the  Wilderness ;  those 
tireless  efforts  to  check  a  far  superior  force  of  inexhausti 
ble  resources.  He  had  seen  the  horrors  of  the  blazing 
woods  of  Spottsylvania,  where  the  wounded  were  burned 
alive  ;  he  had  witnessed,  from  a  distance,  the  diabolic 
explosion  of  the  Crater,  and  he  had  shared  the  silent 
anguish  of  the  leader  when  the  debacle  began,  when, 
after  Five  Forks  and  Sailor's  Creek,  Lee,  still  unconquered, 
started  with  the  remnant  of  his  army,  like  a  hunted  fox, 
for  the  coverts  of  Lynchburg. 

It  was  a  heart-breaking  spectacle,  that  retreat.  The 
spring  rains  had  turned  tl^s  roads  into  vicious  gullies  of 
paste ;  the  woodlands  became  swamps  ;  the  meadows, 
pools  of  water.  Horses,  wagons,  and  men  sank  into  the 
earth  as  into  quicksands.  Provision  trains  were  blocked 
and  abandoned  to  the  closely  pursuing  enemy.  Cannons 
were  spiked,  caissons  demolished,  to  hasten  flight ;  rail 
roads  were  destroyed  and  bridges  burned  to  delay  pur 
suit.  The  regiments  became  uncontrollable  rabbles,  and 
stragglers  deserted  at  will.  The  faithful,  hungry  without 
the  prospect  of  rations,  often  threw  away  the  useless 
burden  of  their  muskets. 

At  unexpected  moments  brigades  of  Grant's  army  ap 
peared  and  cut  off  whole  detachments,  capturing  thou 
sands.  In  two  weeks  the  Army  of  Northern  Virginia, 
fifty  thousand  in  number,  lost  in  killed,  wounded,  and 
captured  one-half  of  its  men,  and  of  that  remainder  only 
a  fraction  were  able  to  bear  arms.  At  last  the  bulwark 
of  the  Confederacy  was  shattering  from  the  incessant 
pounding  of  the  waves. 

The  original  intention  of  Lee  was  to  make  for  Danville 
on  the  North  Carolina  border,  and  to  join  forces  with 
Johnston.  But  the  pursuers  on  the  south  cut  him  off. 
Then  he  turned  toward  Lynchburg,  telegraphing  in 
advance  for  supplies.  But  Sheridan,  with  his  cavalry, 
ran  ahead  and  captured  the  provision  trains.  When  Lee 
reached  Appomattox,  he  was  almost  surrounded,  his  army 
had  nothing  to  eat,  and  there  was  no  hope  of  relief.  He 


86  HEKRY   BOUELAKD 

faced  two  alternatives  :  a  last  battle  with  its  futile  sacri 
fice  of  his  men,  or  a  capitulation.  On  the  ninth  of  April, 
in  reply  to  a  note  from  Grant,  he  rode  over  to  McLean's 
house  to  discuss  the  terms  of  surrender. 

The  officers  under  the  apple  tree  were  now  awaiting  his 
return. 

April  was  in  her  worst  mood  that  day.  Heavy  clouds 
hung  all  over  the  sky  ;  a  drizzle  oozed  out  of  the  atmos 
phere,  gathered  on  the  leaves  and  dripped,  dripped, 
dripped  to  the  ground. 

Near  this  group  of  officers  the  Stars  and  Bars  hung 
down  limp  from  a  staff  that  leaned  against  the  angle  of 
a  worm  fence.  A  drum,  flabby  with  moisture,  when  a 
man  flung  a  stone  at  its  head,  gave  forth  a  sullen  grunt. 
A  few  paces  away,  a  dozen  muskets  were  stacked  into  a 
double  cone.  Beside  them,  under  the  cover  of  a  tree,  lay 
a  number  of  soldiers,  fast  asleep. 

The  officers  were  talking  of  recent  events, — the  capture 
of  Richmond,  the  flight  of  President  Davis  and  his  cabi 
net,  the  great  fire  which  had  burned  half  the  city.  They 
were  discussing,  too,  the  merits  of  Grant,  to  whom  they 
referred,  occasionally,  as  the  Butcher. 

"  Well,  he's  used  us  up ;  there  isn't  much  doubt  about 
that,"  said  a  captain,  yawning  and  stretching  backward. 

"  He'll  pair  off  with  Sherman,"  said  another,  scratching 
the  ground  with  his  scabbard.  "  They  tell  me  he  went 
down  through  the  coast  states  like  a  prairie  fire,  and  left 
behind  him  a  trail  sixty  miles  wide,  as  clean  picked  as 
our  mess  tables." 

"  We  mustn't  play  cry  baby,"  replied  Bourland.  "  War 
is  hell's  game.  It's  not  for  the  nursery.  Grant  didn't 
come  down  here  for  a  dress  parade,  and  Sherman  didn't 
go  to  Atlanta  on  a  cakewalk."  There  was  an  insup- 
pressible  languor  in  his  voice,  which  showed  that  he 
was  physically  worn  out.  "  But  I  wish,"  he  added,  "  that 
we  could  have  joined  Johnston,  and  that  Uncle  Robert 
could  have  had  one  more  crack  at  them,  just  enough  to 
end  with  a  flourish  and  a  little  salve."  His  set  teeth, 
whiter  amid  his  black  beard,  for  he  wore  a  beard  now, 


LEE  AT  APPOMATTOX  87 

showed  a  spasmodic  concentration  of  the  last  resources  of 
will  power. 

"  Here  he  comes,"  shouted  a  soldier,  running  toward 
the  officers. 

They  all  jumped  up  and  looked  down  the  road. 

Slowly,  laboriously,  hanging  his  head,  came  a  melan 
choly  horse  with  his  rider.  General  Lee  was  dressed  in 
a  gray  uniform,  fresh,  unwrinkled,  fastidiously  neat,  the 
coat  of  which  was  buttoned  closely  about  the  neck.  A 
broad-brimmed  felt  hat  was  pulled  down  over  the  half 
curls  of  his  hair.  At  his  side  hung  the  sword,  with 
gold  and  jewelled  hilt,  presented  to  him  by  the  state  of 
Virginia.  He  looked  neither  to  the  right  nor  left,  but 
with  QJQS  upon  the  ground,  he  rode  reluctantly,  as  if 
he  were  riding  away  forever  from  the  dearest  thing  on 
earth. 

Colonel  Marshall,  his  secretary,  came  a  few  paces  be 
hind  him.  There  were  no  other  attendants. 

Before  he  reached  the  edge  of  the  camp  the  soldiers 
began  to  cheer,  and  to  cheer  more  loudly  as  he  approached. 
But  he  did  not  seem  to  hear  them.  They  began  to  un 
derstand.  The  noisy  greeting  became  subdued,  and 
ceased  altogether.  They  pressed  forward  to  the  road 
sides —  silent  as  the  monuments  that  line  the  Appian 
Way  to  Rome.  A  feeling  —  not  awe,  not  mere  admira 
tion,  not  religious  reverence,  not  presumptuous  enough 
to  be  sympathy  —  deprived  them  of  speech  and  motion. 
As  he  rode  into  the  files,  they  took  off  their  caps. 
Lee,  suddenly  aware,  looked  up,  saw  the  men,  and  took 
off  his  own  hat.  One  man,  bolder  than  the  rest,  broke 
out  from  the  ranks  ;  others  followed,  and  in  a  moment 
the  general  was  the  centre  of  a  circle  of  men,  struggling 
to  reach  his  hands,  to  touch  his  uniform,  to  lay  fingers 
even  upon  the  horse. 

The  discipline  of  manhood  broke  under  the  strain. 
They  gave  vent  to  sobs  and  cries.  They  turned  and 
hid  their  faces  in  the  grass.  They  sat  down  by  the 
roadside  and  wept  like  broken-hearted  women. 

Lee's  immobile  countenance  relaxed  at  the  sight. 


88  HENRY   BOUKLAND 

"  God  bless  you,  boys  ;  you  have  been  brave  soldiers ; 
now  you  must  become  brave  citizens." 

He  said  but  little  more.  It  was  dangerous  for  him  to 
speak  then  ;  for  utterance  opened  the  gates  of  escape  for 
his  own  feelings.  The  commander,  now  commander  110 
more,  hastened  on ;  the  fringes  of  his  eyes  were  obscur 
ing  his  vision. 

Bourland  and  his  comrades,  standing  upon  the  eleva 
tion  of  a  road  cut,  saw  this  tragic  spectacle.  His  face 
became  chill  with  sweat.  He  looked  at  the  others  ;  the 
muscles  of  their  countenances  were  twitching,  and  they 
were  biting  their  lips  or  turning  away  their  eyes.  He  felt 
that  he  must  say  something,  or  be  swept  off  by  his  emotions. 

"Well,  our  jig  has  knocked  over  the  music  now,"  he 
muttered,  blurting  out  the  first  words  that  came  in  order 
that  he  might  endure  the  crisis. 

Another  officer  was  stabbing  the  drum  head  repeatedly 
with  the  point  of  his  scabbard. 

"  Oh  !  "  he  shouted,  "  if  he  had  only  had  an  equal  chance  ; 
if  he  had  had  enough  men  and  enough  food  to  put  in  their 
bellies,  he  would  have  driven  Grant  back  to  his  tannery 
and  licked  him  with  his  own  leather." 

Hope  folded  her  wearied  and  plumeless  wings.  The 
surrender  of  Lee  was  the  end  of  the  Confederacy  ;  for 
he  was  the  heart,  the  brain,  the  soul  of  it. 

An  hour  later  a  soldier  rode  up  to  Bourland,  and  de 
livered  an  order  for  him  to  report  at  once  to  the  general. 

He  went  to  his  tent  and  rapped  on  the  pole,  as  the 
sentry  was  absent.  No  reply  came  from  within.  The 
wind,  just  then,  blew  aside  the  flap  of  the  curtain,  and  lie 
caught  a  glimpse  of  a  gray  head  buried  in  two  hands. 
He  stepped  back,  waited  awhile,  and  rapped  more  loudly. 

"  Come  in  !  "     The  voice  was  steady. 

"  General  Lee  !  "  said  Bourland,  with  a  salute. 

"  Colonel  Bourland,"  returned  the  other,  with  his  cus 
tomary  reserve.  He  went  to  his  secretary  and  took  out 
a  paper. 

"  I  wish  you  to  take  a  message  to  General  Echols  of  the 
Army  of  Southwest  Virginia.  You  will  find  him  some- 


I  couldn't  fight  any  more  after  this.1  " 


'  c'r         «  V    *  «*r »  %«' 


LEE   AT   APPOMATTOX  89 

where  about  Christiansburg.  That  is  not  far  from  your 
own  home,  is  it?  " 

"  No,  sir." 

"  I  want  you  to  go  at  once.  You  need  not  return  to  the 
army.  That  will  save  you  your  share  of  to-morrow's 
humiliation." 

"  May  I  ask  what  terms  he  gave  us  ?  "  The  stress  on 
the  pronoun  indicated  sufficiently  well  the  Silent  Captain 
of  the  Union  Army. 

"General  Grant,"  replied  Lee  very  frankly,  uhas 
offered  us  the  terms  of  a  gentleman.  He  wants  peace 
with  as  little  humiliation  as  possible.  We  are  to  be 
paroled,  and  then  the  army  will  disband,  and  the  men  go 
to  their  homes.  The  privates  lay  down  their  arms ;  but 
all  who  own  horses  are  to  keep  them.  The  officers  retain 
their  side  arms  and  personal  effects.  I  was  much  pleased 
with  the  conference  in  some  ways.  Men  like  Grant  will 
do  much  to  allay  the  sectional  bitterness.  He's  a  great 
general.  If  you  had  had  him  for  your  leader  —  " 

"  Oh !  don't  !  "  interrupted  Bourland,  "  don't  dare  to 
say  such  a  thing.  If  you  had  only  had  the  men." 

"  Thank  God,"  answered  the  other,  breaking  his  official 
reserve,  "  I  had  men.  And  they  were  men.  No  com 
mander  ever  had  better." 

He  walked  over  to  his  secretary. 

"  Come  here,  Colonel.  Let  me  show  you  something. 
It  came  to  me  like  an  accusation  of  crime.  I  couldn't 
fight  any  more  after  this." 

He  took  out  of  a  drawer  a  small  pasteboard  box,  in 
which  were  a  few  grains  of  parched  corn  and  a  thin  sliver 
of  bacon.  There  was  also  this  note  scrawled  in  lead 
pencil. 

"  General  Lee  we  luve  you  and  we  will  folio  you  til  dethe.  But  we 
cant  fite  on  nuthin,  ower  stummicks  wont  stand  it.  This  is  a  days  rashuns. 

"  Yours  respeckfuly 

"A    PRIVATE." 

As  Bourland  read  the  paper  he  was  aware  that  the  soul 
of  the  man  beside  him  was  convulsing  with  emotion.  He 
heard  a  choked  sob. 


90  HENBY   BOUKLAND 

"  I  surrendered  after  that.  I  had  to  ask  Grant  for 
food."  The  phrase  was  broken,  and  the  words  were  wet. 

Bourland  wished  himself  away.  He  felt  as  Moses  must 
have  felt  when  he  stood  in  the  presence  of  the  burning 
bush  on  Mount  Horeb. 

But  the  general  soon  regained  his  control,  and  his  man 
ner  changed. 

"Henry,"  the  tone  was  almost  paternal,  "how  is  your 
father  ?  "' 

"  I  haven't  heard  for  some  time.  Then  things  were 
going  very  badly  at  home." 

"  I  knew  him  well,  though  he  was  some  years  older. 
We  were  in  the  same  corps  in  Mexico.  I  was  present 
when  your  uncle  was  buried  at  Chapultepec.  You  have  a 
good  name,  and  your  family  has  a  noble  history.  Go  back 
home,  Henry,  and  build  up  the  ruins.  You  can  do  it." 

"I  shall  try,  General.  Somehow  I  cannot  think  that 
I  am  utterly  beaten." 

Lee  placed  both  hands  affectionately  yet  firmly  on  his 
shoulders,  and  looking  him  squarely  in  the  eyes,  he  said 
with  quiet  enthusiasm  :  — 

"  Beaten  ?  No  !  Defeat  is  only  the  birth  pang  of  a 
heroic  soul.  Now  you  are  at  the  sternest  test  of  all.  Be 
strong.  Go  home,  and  work  and  repair.  Stand  up,  my 
boy,  in  the  eye  of  God." 

The  words  had  all  the  impressiveness  of  a  confirmation 
service.  When  Lee  released  his  hold,  Bourland  felt  as  if 
a  strong  power  had  been  withdrawn  from  him.  Yet  an 
instant  later  he  became  conscious  of  new  strength  in 
himself. 

Lee  sat  down  in  his  chair,  and  mused  as  if  debating. 
At  last  he  spoke  again. 

"  Colonel,  did  you  ever  know  why  I  appointed  you  on 
my  staff?" 

"  I  suppose  it  was  out  of  regard  for  my  father." 

"  Oh,  no,  not  that.  I  don't  make  appointments  that 
way.  I  had  been  watching  you.  I  saw  your  fire  and 
dash,  and  your  genius  for  leadership.  I  thought  perhaps 
I  might  get  my  Right  Arm  again ;  I  thought  you  might 


LEE  AT  APPOMATTOX  91 

make  another  Jackson.     We  have  never  filled  his  place, 
Colonel." 

Bourland  took  the  unspoken  rebuke ;  he  had  been 
weighed  in  the  balances  and  found  wanting. 

"  You've  got  the  dash  and  fire  that  Jackson  had,"  Lee 
went  on  ;  "  you've  got  the  irresistible  elan,  but  —  "  here  he 
paused,  and  his  eye  became  searching  and  his  voice  stern  — 
44  you  don't  think  long  enough  ;  you  don't  consider  the 
alternatives  before  you  act.  You  only  see  one  side  of 
things.  Your  enthusiasm  runs  away  with  your  judgment. 
You've  got  too  much  imagination  for  a  commander  of 
armies.  You  ought  to  be  an  orator.  Go  home  and  grow 
wiser.  We  shall  need  you  in  Virginia  before  long." 

44 1  differ  from  my  father  in  that  way,"  answered  Bour 
land.  u  We  are  not  all  Hotspurs.  I  remember  how  re 
luctantly  he  took  sides  with  the  Confederacy.  I  jumped 
in  by  instinct." 

44 1  can  understand  your  father's  reluctance.  I  had  a 
similar  struggle.  It  was  a  conflict  of  loves.  I  made  my 
choice  for  Virginia,  and  I  have  never  regretted  it." 

He  got  up  quickly. 

44  You  must  be  off.  This  is  no  time  for  such  talk.  Get 
the  despatches  to  General  Echols  as  quickly  as  you  can. 
Here  is  a  safe-conduct  through  the  Union  lines.  Let  me 
impress  on  you  this  last  word,  for  I  have  it  on  my  heart. 
You  have  fought  for  the  state,  stand  by  her  in  her  distress. 
Don't  desert  her.  Don't  emigrate  to  Mexico  or  England, 
as  some  talk  of  doing.  Good-by.  Tell  your  father  we 
have  fought  the  good  fight,  and  noAV  it  is  all  over." 

Bourland  shook  his  hand,  and  went  out.  He  bade  fare 
well  to  his  friends,  left  a  signed  parole,  and  in  an  hour 
was  riding  away  on  his  mission. 

The  mist  had  turned  into  a  light  rain.  The  horse  stum 
bled  along,  and  often  sank  above  his  fetlocks,  so  that  his 
progress  was  slow.  Twice,  as  Bourland  passed  through 
Sheridan's  lines,  he  was  stopped,  his  papers  examined,  and, 
after  apologies  for  the  detention,  he  was  permitted  to  pass 
on.  On  the  outskirts  of  the  Union  lines,  he  ran  into  a 
group  of  dismounted  soldiers,  doubtless  stragglers,  who 


92  HENKY   BOURLAND 

sat  roaring  drunk  around  a  fire.  An  effigy,  an  old  gray 
uniform  stuffed  with  weeds,  was  hanging  from  the  branch 
of  a  tree.  They  were  pelting  it  with  mud,  and  singing 
without  regard  to  time  or  tune,  — 

"  We'll  hang  Jeff  Davis  on  a  sour  apple  tree." 

They  attempted  to  stop  him,  but  he,  desiring  to  avoid 
all  such,  put  spurs  to  his  horse,  and  galloped  away  before 
they  could  reach  their  carbines.  One  belated  shot  cut 
harmlessly  through  the  trees. 

He  hoped  to  reach  Lynchburg  by  midnight.  But  when 
the  night  fell,  he  had  to  trust  to  the  instinct  of  his  horse, 
who,  soon  tired  by  the  heavy  road,  moved  at  his  own  pace. 
The  darkness  loomed  ahead  like  a  barricade,  and  oftentimes 
he  had  to  force  his  horse  to  push  into  it.  Now  and  then 
the  lamp  gleams  from  a  roadside  house  gave  him  a  pleas 
ant  invitation,  and  only  the  thought  that  he  was  an  official 
messenger  kept  him  from  halting  and  seeking  rest  for  the 
night. 

But  if  the  air  was  blank  darkness  only,  his  mind  was  a 
dark  chamber  illuminated  by  a  streaming  procession  of 
images  :  the  scenes  of  the  past  weeks,  the  confusion  of 
men,  animals,  and  wagons,  the  piteous  cries  of  the  wounded, 
the  last  wails  of  the  exhausted,  the  stern,  set  faces  of  the 
unconquered,  as  they  plodded  along  on  that  terrible  retreat. 
And  then  behind  all  these  vivid  pictures,  the  vague  sense 
of  the  collapse ;  that  all  for  which  they  had  fought  and 
bled  for  years,  was  a  desolation,  a  ruin,  a  lost  cause,  and 
that  the  Confederacy,  like  a  magnificent  ship,  launched  a 
few  years  before,  with  colors  flying,  with  jubilant  music, 
bearing  on  her  decks  proud  women  and  brave  men,  that 
this  splendid  vessel  had  been  gulped  down  by  the  sea,  and 
had  disappeared  forever.  And  he  —  he  was  a  survivor, 
struggling  for  his  own  petty  life  amid  the  surge  and  swirl 
and  gurgle  of  the  waters. 

There  was  one  thought  to  relieve  his  utter  dejection. 
With  his  mind's  eye  he  could  pierce  those  clouds  that  en 
veloped  him  on  all  sides,  and  far  above  them,  shining  out 
of  the  serene  depths  of  the  heaven  was  a  single  star,  and 


LEE  AT  APPOMATTOX  93 

behind  that,  haloed  by  its  nebulous  beauty,  and  beaming 
with  a  greater  effulgence,  was  a  girl's  face,  raining  upon 
his  tired  heart,  and  tired  head,  and  tired  body  the  riches 
of  her  inexhaustible  love. 

As  he  rode  up  the  steep  pitch  of  a  Lynchburg  street,  the 
bell  in  the  town  hall  at  the  top  of  the  hill  was  striking 
three. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  RETURN  TO  BOURLAND  HALL 

Six  days  later,  a  man  and  a  horse,  utterly  fagged  out, 
entered  Brayton  at  the  western  end  of  the  main  street. 
The  inhabitants  did  not  recognize  Bourland ;  a  black 
beard  masked  his  features.  And  he  too  felt  like  an  alien 
as  he  observed  the  changes  in  the  old  landmarks. 

There  stood  the  pump  in  the  highway,  and  the  water 
ing  trough,  both  in  a  state  of  collapse.  The  road  was 
grooved  by  deep  ruts,  and  strewn  with  refuse,  paper,  wood, 
crockery,  tin.  Grass  grew  in  the  crevices  of  the  pave 
ments,  and  forced  the  bricks  out  of  the  level.  In  several 
places  fires  had  burned  down  dwellings  and  stores,  and  the 
debris  lay  where  it  fell.  Many  houses  were  boarded  up 
and  deserted.  A  few  horses,  hitched  by  rope  harness  to 
ramshackle  wagons,  stood  with  torpid  docility  by  the  curb 
stones. 

While  the  horse  picked  his  way  among  the  ruts,  Bour 
land  looked  for  familiar  faces.  The  glaring  sign  which 
formerly  announced  that  John  Souder  sold  flour  and  feed 
was  scarcely  legible.  A  strange  man  stood  in  the  door 
way  of  the  china  store.  What  had  become  of  Sam 
Thomas  ?  At  the  grocer's  corner,  where  old  Si  Hawkins 
used  to  gossip  with  his  worthies,  —  the  pilferers  of  crack 
ers  and  currants,  —  there  was  now  no  group  of  men,  not 
even  a  man.  Through  the  door  of  the  butcher's  shop  the 
returning  horseman  saw  a  woman  clumsily  chopping  at 
the  meat  block,  while  the  customer,  a  lady  in  a  respectable 
bonnet,  looked  languidly  on.  Five  children  were  playing 
about  the  entrance.  Few  men  were  visible  anywhere,  and 
these  were  either  feeble  or  crippled.  Bourland  went  by 

94 


THE   EETURN   TO  BOURLAND   HALL  95 

them  without  stopping  to  speak  ;  in  his  present  mood  he 
desired  to  avoid  every  one,  to  get  home  as  quietly  as  pos 
sible.  He  had  been  away  scarcely  two  years,  but  they 
seemed  as  thirty.  The  village  was  changed,  like  a  man 
passed  into  the  languor  of  decrepitude.  The  houses  just 
stood  —  and  no  more.  The  war  had  accelerated  the  de 
structive  forces  of  nature  and  time  like  a  galloping  con 
sumption. 

All  the  joy  of  his  homecoming  was  chilled  by  the  uni 
versal  desolation  and  distress. 

He  spurred  the  tired  horse  down  toward  the  bridge.  It 
had  disappeared.  A  few  piles,  rising  above  the  surface  of 
the  water  with  their  charred  tops,  told  of  its  fate.  A 
ferryman  hailed  him,  and  offered  to  take  him  across.  He 
led  the  horse  into  a  flat-bottomed  scow,  and  held  the  bridle 
while  the  old  man  worked  feebly  at  the  oars. 

After  dragging  his  horse  up  the  bank  on  the  other  side, 
he  mounted  once  more  into  the  saddle.  From  this  eleva 
tion  he  could  see,  —  and  oh !  how  his  heart  burned  then, 
—  the  Hall,  the  dear  home,  half  hidden  among  the  trees. 
There,  there  it  stood,  as  of  old,  upon  its  ledge  of  rock, 
sheltering  his  loved  ones. 

At  the  turn  of  the  road  where  the  Mill  Run  empties 
into  the  Lacamac,  he  saw  a  negro  fishing. 

The  stream  brought  back  the  memories  of  his  boyhood. 
He,  too,  had  fished  in  that  water,  and  had  dreamed  away 
the  mornings  in  the  cool  shadow  of  its  willows.  He  had 
given  it  a  name,  the  Guadalquivir.  It  took  a  moment  to 
recall  it  and  that  romance  of  old  Spain  which  had  once 
caught  his  boyish  fancy. 

The  negro  looked  up,  stared  with  his  great  white  eyes, 
and  flung  down  his  pole. 

"  Marse  Henry,  is  dat  you'se'f  ?  " 

"  Why,  hello,  Pete  !  are  you  still  around  ?  " 

"  Gor'd  bless  my  soul,  is  you  alive  yit,  marster  ?  Lawd, 
but  I'se  glad  you'se  back  to  we-all." 

He  ran  up,  and  trotted  alongside  of  the  horse. 

"  How  are  the  folks  at  the  Hall  ? "  asked  Bourland, 
eagerly. 


96  HENRY   BOUBLAKD 

"  Marse  John,  he  bery  po'ly,  sah.  We-all  in  de  quah 
tahs,  we  doan'  see  him  no  moah.  De  house  folkses,  de] 
say  he  sick  abaid,  an'  doan'  talk  much  ;  he  jes'  look,  look 
all  de  day  up  at  de  ceilin',  as  ef  he's  on'y  waitin'  foh  to  g( 
to  missus  up  dyar.  But  Mis'  El'nor,  she's  right  peart 
least  aways,  she's  able  to  be  about  ;  but  in  bery  po'l 
sperrits,  sah.  I  reckon  she'll  be  pow'ful  glad  you  is  curi 
back." 

"  Thank  God,  father  is  still  alive,"  murmured  the  son 

Bourland,  as  he  rode  along,  began  to  notice  the  lines  o 
broken  fences,  and  beyond  these  the  fields,  once  as  beauti 
ful  and  fertile  as  gardens,  now  naught  but  acres  of  weed; 
and  wild  grasses,  amongst  which,  faintly  discernible,  wen 
the  rotting  stumps  and  stubble  of  the  last  crops. 

"  Why  haven't  you  boys  done  your  planting  ?  "  aske< 
Bourland. 

"  Dere  ain't  no  mules  an'  no  moah  bosses  to  plough  d< 
fiel's.  Las'  fall  de  Yanks,  dey  cum  a-ridin'  an'  done  tul 
all  de  cawn  in  de  cribs,  an'  de  hosses  an'  de  cows,  al'  'cep 
one  dat  Tube  Cain  try  to  keep,  an'  dey  didn'  tek  dat  one 
'case  Tube,  he  swing  an  axe,  an'  say  he  brek  de  back-bon< 
of  de  sodjer  what  try  to  get  him  ;  he  say  dat  Marse  Johi 
sick,  an'  mus'  have  his  fresh  milk  ;  den  a  officer,  he  cun 
up  an'  he  say  to  let  dat  air  cow  by  hisse'f.  De  sodjer,  IK 
swear  a  li'l,  an'  look  at  de  axe  an'  at  Tube  Cain,  an'  dei 
he  go  off  a-swearin'  moah.  Dat's  de  on'y  cow  on  de  plan 
tashun.  I  know,  'case  I  does  de  milkin'." 

"  What  do  you  live  on  ?  "  asked  Bourland,  mechanically 
He  was  overwhelmed  by  the  waste  and  dreariness  all  abou 
him. 

"  We  hed  some  cawn  'screted  in  de  woods,  which  de  so 
jers  didn'  snatch  of,  an'  de  gyarden  patch  which  dey  didn 
tech.  But  we  doan'  get  much,  an'  I  allow,  Marse  Henry 
dat  we'll  get  moah,  now  dat  you  is  come  to  home." 

Bourland  entered  the  avenue  of  maples,  the  roadway  o 
which  was  strewn  with  branches  and  twigs  broken  off  ty 
the  wind  storms.  Some  of  the  cabins  in  the  quarters  wer< 
closed  up,  others  were  gaping  open  and  empty.  The  slavei 
who  remained,  men,  women,  and  children,  gathered  abou 


"She  stood  leaning  against  a  pillar,  and  looking  hopelessly  out 
toward  the  placid  mountains  in  the  west." 


THE  RETURN  TO  BOURLAND  HALL     97 

him  ;  he  greeted  them  as  cordially  as  his  depression  would 
allow,  and  then  leaving  them  behind,  urged  his  horse  up 
the  pitch  to  the  level  of  the  Ledge.  He  wanted  to  enter 
the  Hall,  undisturbed  and  alone. 

He  stopped  before  the  gateway.  He  was  overwhelmed 
anew  by  the  signs  of  change :  the  disordered  lawn,  the 
rank  shrubbery,  the  gravel  paths  almost  obliterated  by  the 
grass,  and,  fronting  it  all,  the  house,  stately  in  form,  yet 
dingy  through  weather  and  neglect. 

He  started  back  as  before  an  apparition. 

A  woman,  unaware  of  his  approach,  had  just  come  out 
of  the  door.  She  stood  leaning  against  a  pillar,  and  look 
ing  hopelessly  out  toward  the  placid  mountains  in  the 
west.  She  was  dressed  in  coarse,  ill-fitting  woollen  stuff  ; 
her  hair  was  negligently  drawn  behind  in  a  tight  coil,  re 
vealing  the  full  lines  of  the  gaunt  eyes,  gaunt  cheeks, 
gaunt  countenance,  pallid  as  the  gray  column  beside  her. 

Could  that  be  his  sister  ?     Great  God  ! 

He  conjured  up  the  girl  as  he  saw  her  when  home  on 
his  furlough.  She  had  crept  upon  him,  the  last  night,  as 
he  lay  dozing  in  an  arm-chair,  to  steal  a  brass  button  from 
his  uniform  as  a  keepsake.  He  had  pretended  to  be  asleep. 
But  through  the  fringes  of  his  eyelids  he  caught  the  mis 
chief  in  her  eyes,  the  glitter  of  the  diamond  brooch  at  her 
throat  ;  he  heard  the  clip  of  the  shears,  the  rustle  of  her 
silk  gown,  the  joyous  shout  of  triumph  as  she  made  off 
with  her  booty. 

But  this  woman,  aged  far  beyond  her  years  ;  this  wasted 
figure  ;  this  dry,  thin  face  ;  those  weary  eyes,  —  dull  with 
the  despair  of  the  goddess  of  Melancholia,  —  was  this  now 
that  sister  ? 

He  broke  through  the  gateway,  jumped  from  his  horse, 
and  with  outreaching  arms  he  ran  toward  her  with  a  wild 
cry. 

She  turned  ;  she  stood  rigid  as  in  a  maze,  and  then  with 
a  cry  shriller  than  his  own,  she  rushed  down  the  steps. 

"  Brother  !  " 

"  Sister  !  " 

She  came  like  a  fawn  fleeing  before  the  hunters  and  the 


98  HENRY  BOURLAND 

pack.  He  felt  the  strain,  intense,  intenser  ;  the  tighten 
ing  embrace  of  her  arms  ;  the  unvoiced  plea  for  protec 
tion  ;  the  gasp  of  joy  at  the  return  of  the  comrade. 

He  held  her  with  full  strength,  yet  tenderly.  His  lips 
touched  her  cold  cheeks. 

"  And  father,  Eleanor  ?  "  he  asked  in  a  quivering  whisper 
of  inquiry. 

Her  face  became  beautifully  sad.  There  were  no  traces 
of  tears.  Grief  had  long  since  wrung  her  nature  dry. 

"  With  mother.     He  went  last  night." 

The  man  sat  down  on  the  steps,  and  with  his  hands 
shut  out  the  grim  emptiness  of  space.  He  felt  the  sudden 
blast  of  an  arctic  chill.  He  seemed  to  be  thrust  into  a  cav 
ern  of  ice  and  darkness. 

He  opened  his  eyes  ;  the  air  swam  with  heavy  particles 
that  beat  and  stung  them. 

"  Come  !  "  she  said,  bravely  firm. 

She  led  him  up  the  steps,  across  the  portico,  into  the 
hallway,  up  the  stairs,  then  onward  to  a  door  which  she 
opened,  and  into  a  darkened  room.  They  stood  in  the 
presence  of  their  dead. 

John  Bourland  lay  in  his  bed,  his  arms  gathered  close 
to  his  sides.  His  hair  was  neatly  brushed  ;  the  high  fore 
head  was  bare  and  cold  white.  About  his  eyes  were  the 
dark-hued  traceries  of  age,  on  his  cheeks  the  carmine  net 
work  of  veins ;  around  the  mouth,  the  smile  of  painless 
death. 

Bourland  threw  himself  across  the  body.  He  could  not 
weep  ;  all  his  energy  was  gone. 

"  Too  late  !  only  a  few  hours  too  late  !  "  he  murmured 
repeatedly. 

After  a  while  he  arose.  Eleanor  was  seated  on  the 
edge  of  a  couch  where,  during  the  weeks  of  watching  and 
attendance,  she  had  taken  her  sleep  in  snatches.  He  sat 
down  opposite  in  a  chair. 

"  None  but  the  house  servants  know  yet,"  she  said,  and 
then  she  began  her  sad  story. 

"  Father  had  been  unable  to  leave  his  room  for  the  last 
three  months.  Two  weeks  ago  he  had  another  attack, 


THE  RETURN  TO  BOURLAND  HALL     99 

and  after  that  his  mind  wandered.  The  news  of  the  sur 
render  came  ;  but  he  didn't  comprehend  it.  He  smiled 
when  I  told  him,  and  asked  me  to  bring  his  sword,  and 
when  I  did,  he  said, 4  Put  it  away  for  Harry  when  he  grows 
up.'  For  a  long  time  he  didn't  say  anything  at  all.  This 
morning,  as  I  lay  here,  he  woke  me  up  crying,  4  Where's 
Henry,  I  want  Henry.'  I  tried  to  quiet  him,  and  told 
him  you  would  soon  be  back.  '  Oh  !  I  won't  be  able  to 
see  him,  for  I  hear  mother  calling.'  I  bent  over  to  catch 
the  rest  of  the  words,  and  I  could  see  the  light  going  out 
of  his  eyes.  c  Yes,  Mary,  I'll  come,'  he  said,  and  I  think 
he  mistook  me  for  her.  4  Tell  Henry  that  he  must  keep 
up  the  old  place,  and  cut  the  grass,  and  have  the  roof  fixed. 
Tell  him  he  must  never  let  the  place  go  out  of  the  family. 
He's  the  only  Bourland  left.'  He  was  quiet  for  a  while, 
and  I  lay  down  again  and  fell  into  a  doze.  When  I  awoke 
his  eyes  were  wide  open,  and  he  was  gone." 

The  brother  and  sister  remained  talking  of  the  past 
and  its  mournful  details,  and  finally  they  arose  to  leave 
the  room.  Eleanor  paused  by  the  bedside,  and,  leaning 
over,  kissed  the  cold  lips.  They  descended  the  stairs. 
And  there  they  left  him. 

Bourland  now  became  conscious  that  he  was  fiercely 
hungry.  It  was  four  o'clock,  and  he  had  taken  nothing 
since  the  early  morning.  Eleanor  went  to  the  kitchen  to 
get  him  something,  and  he,  left  alone,  wandered  over  the 
house.  Within,  there  was  little  change,  except  slight 
evidences  of  wear ;  the  furniture,  the  decorations,  always 
somewhat  scanty,  the  books  in  the  library,  all  remained 
the  same.  Only  the  silence,  broken  no  more  by  the 
familiar  voices  and  the  familiar  steps,  the  silence  was  elo 
quent  with  many  faint  echoes. 

Eleanor  called  him  into  the  dining  room.  He  saw 
on  the  table  some  stewed  fruit,  black-eyed  peas,  bread, 
and  an  omelette.  They  told  him  a  pitiful  tale.  He 
looked  at  his  sister's  starved  body,  and  shook  his  head. 

"  Oh,  we've  managed  to  live,"  she  answered,  with  no 
trace  of  complaint. 

He  left  the  table  as  soon  as  he  could.     He  wanted  to 


100  HENRY   BOURLAND 

hide  from  his  sight  those  two  vacant  chairs.  They 
seemed  haunted. 

He  walked  into  the  great  parlor.  The  air  was  musty ; 
for  during  the  past  years  there  had  been  few  visitors  at 
the  Hall,  and  the  room  had  been  kept  closed.  He  sat 
down  in  an  old  arm-chair.  Outside  the  day  had  begun 
to  darken,  and  rain  clouds  were  rolling  out  of  the  west. 
Through  the  openings  of  the  Venetian  blinds  there  came 
just  enough  light  to  cast  a  gloom  into  the  atmosphere. 
His  thoughts  half  choked  his  respiration. 

He  realized  more  forcibly  than  ever  before  how  utterly 
alone  he  was  in  the  world — he,  the  last  of  the  great  line, 
the  sole  survivor,  who  held  the  trust  and  heritage  of  the 
dead.  There  upon  the  wall  hung  the  portraits,  silent, 
grim,  with  their  ceaseless  scrutiny,  the  stern  faces  of  his 
ancestors.  He  lived  again  that  unforgettable  scene  with 
his  father  before  the  war,  and  the  words  revived  in  his 
memory,  "  They  are  dead,  yet  they  live  in  us." 

And  now  the  father  was  gone,  and  he  was  the  solitary 
bearer  of  the  name,  and  upon  him  had  fallen  the  supreme 
duty  to  reconstruct,  out  of  the  wreckage  of  war  and  time, 
the  prestige  and  the  fortunes  of  his  house.  It  was  a 
sacred  duty  ;  a  burden,  in  a  small  way,  like  that  imposed 
upon  the  prophets  to  restore  the  lustre  of  the  house  of 
David.  Ah !  could  he  do  it  ?  Could  he  labor  and  over 
come,  with  his  spent  energy,  the  inert  forces  of  destruc 
tion  and  change  ? 

He  walked  around,  and  looked  at  each  portrait,  recalling 
its  title  to  fame  ;  last  of  all,  into  the  face  of  him  whose 
body  was  lying  in  the  darkened  room  above.  The  sight 
of  their  countenances,  the  memory  of  their  deeds,  was 
a  stimulus,  an  admonition,  an  imperative  revelation  of 
duty. 

The  door  opened  ;  it  was  Eleanor,  stealing  in  upon  him 
quietly. 

"  All  alone,  brother,  in  the  dark  ?  "  she  said  gently,  put 
ting  her  arm  through  his. 

"  No,  not  alone,  with  you  and  with  these  others  to  watch 
us." 


THE  RETURN  TO  BOURLAND  HALL    101 

He  thanked  God  for  this  brave  sister,  thia  comrade  beside 
him. 

"  I  will  not  think  that  I  am  a  beaten  jnan.f"  he  a^jitcai't^: 
to  himself.  And  with  that  the  last  words  oi  his  com 
mander,  whose  anguish  was  far  keener  than  his  own,  rang 
among  his  wearied  faculties  like  a  reveille. 

"Defeat  is  only  the  birth  pang  of  a  heroic  soul."  A 
resolution  took  hold  of  his  spirit,  stiffened  the  fibres  of 
mind  and  body,  and  turned  his  will  to  iron. 


CHAPTER   XIII 

A  PROBLEM   IN   ASSETS,   LIABILITIES,   AND   LOSSES 

A  FEW  rods  beyond  the  lawn,  nested  amid  the  hush  and 
whispers  of  the  sloping  woodland,  lay  the  burying  ground. 
The  low  stone  wall  was  overrun  with  ivy,  and  on  all  sides, 
soldier-like  in  their  stolid  erectness,  stood  a  file  of  cypress 
trees,  which  cast  over  the  square  plot  their  sombre  shad 
ows.  Here,  beside  a  sarcophagus  bearing  the  Bourland 
arms,  the  memorial  to  the  friend  of  Washington,  Henry 
and  his  sister  laid  their  father  down  hi  his  last  sleep. 

The  night  before,  Bourland  heard  a  timid  knock  at  the 
library  door,  and  when  he  opened  it,  there  stood  an  old 
negro,  his  black  face  covered  almost  to  the  eyes  by  his 
grizzled  and  wiry  beard.  It  was  Uncle  Azariah,  the 
patriarch  of  the  quarters. 

"  Ef  yoh  please,  young  marster,  old  Aze  wants  ter  know 
ef  he  cyarn'  dig  the  marster's  grabe,"  he  begged  with  a 
pleading  quaver.  "  I'se  de  oldes',  an'  I  done  digged  de 
las'  one  foh  missus,"  he  added  by  way  of  argument. 

"Thank  you,  Uncle  Aze,  I'd  be  glad  if  you  would. 
Father's  old  friend,  the  minister,  is  dead,  and  you  might 
read  the  service,  too.  You're  a  preacher,  you  know. 
And  I  don't  want  a  stranger  to  do  it." 

The  old  fellow  seized  his  hands,  kissed  them  for  grati 
tude,  and  sobbed,  as  he  went  away,  "  Gord  bless  yuh  foh 
dat,  marster.  I  didn'  spected  dat  foh  dis  ole  niggah." 

In  the  morning,  some  friends  of  his  father  (there  were 
not  many  left)  came  in  their  thread-worn  broadcloths, 
and  gathered  on  the  portico,  and  talked  with  hushed 
voices  before  the  service  began.  And  the  remnant  of  that 
feudal  band,  the  dusky  servitors,  soon  to  be  released  from 

102 


ASSETS,  LIABILITIES,  AND  LOSSES  103 

all  bondage,  huddled  themselves  in  small  groups  under  the 
chestnut  trees  before  the  house.  They  wept  and  wailed, 
in  their  own  manner,  at  the  fear  of  death  and  at  the  loss 
of  a  kind  master. 

Two  or  three  of  the  friends  gave  brief  testimonials  of 
the  stainless  life  and  character  of  him  who  was  now  far 
beyond  their  praise.  A  prayer,  and  then  they  carried  him 
out  of  the  house,  across  the  lawn,  to  the  little  enclosure 
amid  the  cypress  trees.  Old  Azariah,  in  faltering  tones, 
read  the  service,  and  as  he  pronounced  the  uurth  to 
urth,"  he  dropped  the  handful  of  clay  upon  the  lowered 
coffin.  They  covered  up  the  grave,  and  left  him  beside 
his  wife,  there  where  he  was  forever  safe  from  the  pain 
and  sorrow  of  the  days  to  be. 

For  several  days  Bourland  resigned  his  spirit  to  his 
grief.  But  as  the  time  went  by  the  physical  torpor 
passed  away,  and  his  father's  life  became  a  beautiful  mem 
ory,  upon  which  his  mind  brooded  with  hallowed  affection 
and  love. 

He  followed  the  course  of  events  in  the  South  with  a 
certain  languid  interest.  Lee's  army  was  now  completely 
disbanded  ;  Johnston  had  surrendered  to  Sherman,  and 
President  Davis  was  somewhere  in  the  Gulf  states,  seek 
ing  to  evade  capture.  Taylor,  still  unconquered,  held 
Alabama  ;  and  in  the  southwest,  along  the  Rio  Grande, 
Kirby  Smith  was  endeavoring  to  sustain  a  futile  hope. 

But  Bourland  knew  that  the  South  was  beaten,  honor 
ably  beaten  ;  and  that  the  career  of  the  Confederacy  was 
closed.  He  felt  no  impulse  to  resist  further  ;  he  desired 
to  have  peace  established,  and  to  see  the  adoption  of 
some  settled  policy  of  reconstruction.  He  was  genuinely 
grieved  therefore,  when,  a  few  days  later,  the  news  came 
of  Lincoln's  assassination.  The  day  of  peace  and  settle 
ment,  he  saw  then,  would  be  long  deferred.  For  bitter 
recrimination  followed  between  the  sections,  and  the 
wounds  were  poisoned  before  they  could  begin  to  heal. 

He  began,  however,  to  examine  into  his  worldly  affairs, 
and  to  make  definite  plans  for  the  future.  He  was  not  a 
good  business  man,  Southern  planters  seldom  were,  and  he 


104  HENRY   BOUKLAND 

had  only  the  vaguest  notions  of  the  condition  of  his  in 
heritance.  He  believed  that  he  and  his  sister  were  pos 
sessed  of  some  property,  which  had  once  been  of  great 
value.  But  it  had  been  depreciated  by  the  war,  and  was 
doubtless  burdened  by  heavy  encumbrances.  The  last 
years  had  been  unproductive,  and  what  with  charities, 
current  expenses,  mortgages,  and  purchases  of  Confeder 
ate  bonds,  it  was  quite  probable  that  the  estate  had 
dwindled  to  little  or  nothing. 

There  was  the  land,  two  thousand  acres,  and  the  house. 
The  slaves,  formerly  half  the  assessed  value  of  the  estate, 
even  such  as  remained,  were  no  longer  his  property ;  for 
the  emancipation  proclamation  had  expunged  that  item  of 
his  assets  by  fiat.  So  the  two  orphans  found  themselves 
left  with  the  great  ancestral  Hall  and  its  lands,  encum 
bered  by  debts  and  obligations  of  unknown  amount. 

One  evening,  his  sister  beside  him,  Bourland  opened  his 
father's  secretary,  and  proceeded  to  examine  his  papers. 
They  first  read  the  will.  It  bequeathed  the  property  to 
the  two  children,  three  parts  to  the  son  and  one  part  to 
the  daughter,  and  it  appointed  Henry  as  executor,  to  hold 
his  sister's  share  in  trust,  and  to  manage  it  at  his  own  dis 
cretion.  There  were  several  recommendations,  advising 
certain  gifts  to  distant  relatives  and  faithful  slaves. 

The  bank  book,  showing  at  one  time  a  credit  of  many 
thousands,  had  been  balanced  by  cash  payments,  the  last 
of  which  was  made  in  November,  1863. 

"  Where  have  you  got  any  money  during  the  last  two 
years  ?  "  asked  Henry  of  Eleanor. 

"We  sold  some  tobacco  and  wheat;  some  which  the 
raiders  did  not  get,"  she  answered  with  hesitation. 

"But  that  wasn't  enough." 

"That  man  Clayton,  Elsie  Vinton's  husband,  came 
around  once,  and  I  sold  him  some  of  the  diamonds,"  she 
admitted  reluctantly. 

The  thought  of  it  was  a  humiliation.  The  Bourlands 
reduced  to  such  straits  that  the  family  jewels,  the  heritage 
of  generations,  had  to  be  sold  to  a  Shylock  ! 

They  proceeded  to  examine  the  minor   papers  ;    bills, 


ASSETS,  LIABILITIES,  AND   LOSSES  105 

receipts,  several  small  mortgages  on  neighboring  prop 
erties,  and  a  big  package  of  Confederate  bonds. 

In  a  sealed  envelope  he  found  the  principal  object  of  his 
search  —  a  memorandum  of  the  mortgages  on  the  plan 
tation  :  one  for  twenty-five  thousand  dollars  on  the  Laca- 
niac  tract  of  nine  hundred  acres,  and  another  for  fifteen 
thousand  on  the  Mill  Run  tract  of  six  hundred  acres. 
The  Hall,  a  note  said,  was  clear  of  all  encumbrance,  as  it 
was  the  father's  wish  that  it  should  remain  in  possession 
of  the  family  intact.  A  third  tract,  the  Hill  slope,  embrac 
ing  the  uplands,  the  garden,  and  the  woodland,  was  also 
held  in  clear  title. 

The  Confederate  bonds  amounted  to  some  thirty  thou 
sand  dollars. 

After  a  survey  of  the  papers,  Bourland  took  his  pencil 
and  worked  out,  as  best  he  could,  a  complex  problem  in 
addition  and  subtraction.  At  the  end  of  an  hour,  he  was 
ready  to  report. 

"  Well,  Eleanor,"  he  said,  leaning  back  in  his  chair, 
"here  is  an  estimate  of  what  we  were  and  what  we  are." 

She  drew  closer,  and  looked  over  his  shoulder. 

"  Before  the  war  the  estate  in  house,  lands,  slaves,  live 
stock,  and  some  minor  assets  was  worth  one  hundred  and 
twenty  thousand  dollars." 

"I  think  father  told  me  something  like  that  several 
years  ago,"  said  Eleanor. 

"  Now,  then,"  he  went  on,  "  let  us  subtract  the  losses  in 
slaves  and  live  stock,  about  sixty  thousand  dollars,  more 
or  less.  The  thirty  thousand  dollars  in  Confederate  bonds, 
these  we  can  retain  as  keepsakes  and  proofs  of  father's 
devotion  to  the  cause.  That  will  leave  us  a  balance  of 
sixty  thousand  dollars. 

"  That  isn't  so  bad,"  said  Eleanor,  calmly. 

"  But  that  isn't  all.  The  two  mortgages,  amounting  to 
forty  thousand,  will  sweep  away  most  of  our  equity." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Eleanor,  with  the  same  calmness,  "  that's 
different." 

"  But  at  the  worst  they  can  only  take  the  two  tracts. 
What  we  really  have  is  the  Hall  and  the  few  hundred 


106  HENRY  BOURLAND 

acres  in  clear  title,  and  the  chance,  if  the  South  recovers, 
to  redeem  the  land,  after  many  years  of  struggle  and  hard 
work.  I  doubt  if  we  can  do  it." 

He  looked  off  into  vacancy.    It  seemed  a  desperate  hope. 

"It's  almost  ruin,  isn't  it?  "  said  Eleanor,  with  a  coura 
geous  smile. 

"  Yes,  it  is  almost,  —  in  fact,  quite.  For  land  values  will 
surely  depreciate,  whereas  interest  on  mortgages  won't. 
We  are  swamped." 

The  smile  of  courage  had  not  left  her  face. 

"I  can  teach  school,  Henry." 

"  No  !  you  won't,"  he  cried,  springing  up.  "  We  shall 
stay  right  here  and  fight  it  out — you  and  I.  Father  left 
it  as  his  dying  charge,  and  I'll  stick  to  this  place  till  the 
sheriff  comes.  You'll  stand  by  me,  won't  you,  Nell  ?  " 
He  rarely  called  her  by  this  name. 

"Until  the  end,  Henry;  what  else  have  I  to  live  for?" 
Her  face  was  pathetically  beautiful  —  with  the  beauty  of 
sorrow  veiled. 

"Haven't  you  forgot  somebody?"  she  inquired  a 
moment  later. 

"  No,  Margaret  will  have  to  wait.  I  couldn't  ask  her  to 
come  down  into  this  poverty.  Will  you  help  me  make  a 
place  for  her?  " 

He  could  see  the  struggle  in  her  mind.  It  meant  a  harsh 
abdication  of  all  that  was  left  to  her. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  at  last,  "  I  will  do  all  I  can  for  you 
and  for  her."  He  little  knew  what  it  had  cost  her  in  self- 
denial. 

"  You  dear  girl,"  broke  out  Bourland,  taking  her  in  his 
arms.  Then  he  added,  as  the  magnitude  of  the  task  loomed 
up  before  him :  "  Perhaps  I  can't  do  it.  Perhaps  I  had 
better  give  her  up." 

"  No,  don't  give  her  up.  I  wouldn't  if  I  were  a  man. 
I'd  fight  for  her  as  long  as  I  had  any  breath  in  my  body." 

And  he  began  the  struggle  the  next  morning. 

Difficulties  balked  him  at  the  first  move.  It  was  neces 
sary  to  commence  planting  at  once.  But  he  had  no  seeds, 
no  money,  and  only  one  solitary  horse.  He  could  do  noth- 


ASSETS,    LIABILITIES,  AND   LOSSES  107 

ing  at  all  without  some  cash,  and  he  had  none  except  a  roll 
of  valueless  Confederate  bills.  While  he  was  devising  plans 
to  procure  a  small  sum,  old  Aze  came  up  to  him. 

"  Marster,"  he  said,  bowing  low,  "  I  thought  as  p'raps 
yuh  didn'  know,  but  las'  year  dar  wuz  a  liT  snatch  o' 
tobaccy  fum  de  Run  patch,  an'  de  boys,  dey  sto'ed  it  in 
de  raid  barn,  an'  it's  dar  yit.  Dey  sez  now  dat  tobaccy 
is  high  up,  an'  dar's  a  man  named  Clayton  in  de  village, 
whut  is  gwine  roun'  a-buyin'  of  it." 

"Thank  you,  Uncle  Aze,"  said  Bourland.  He  went 
to  investigate,  and  he  found  a  quantity  of  tobacco,  some 
what  damaged,  yet  salable. 

He  ordered  his  horse  and  started  for  Brayton.  As  he 
rode  away  he  called  out  to  Azariah :  — 

"Have  all  the  boys  about  the  front  porch  at  three 
o'clock  ;  I  want  to  talk  to  them." 

He  found  Clayton,  who,  knowing  that  tobacco  just  at 
that  time  was  a  good  speculation,  had  opened  an  office 
as  a  tobacco  factor.  Bourland  sold  him  all  he  had,  with 
out  haggling,  for  four  hundred  dollars. 

At  three  o'clock,  Azariah,  like  a  captain  of  raw  recruits, 
led  the  former  slaves  before  the  Hall  porch.  Bourland 
came  out  to  meet  them.  They  were  only  a  remnant  — 
the  loyal  and  the  helpless. 

When  the  war  ended,  the  negroes  were  possessed  by 
an  unaccountable  itch  to  go  roaming,  and  many  of  them 
left  their  masters,  and  after  tramping  aimlessly  about, 
they  finally  drifted  into  the  cities  and  large  towns. 
Bourland,  the  week  before,  had  come  across  one  old 
woman  wailing  by  the  roadside ;  she  told  him  "  dat  her 
ole  man  hed  left  her  dar,  sayin'  dat  de  cibil  law  hed 
ceasted,  an'  dat  dere  marridge  was  completed."  Lured 
away  by  this  mania  for  a  change,  several  of  Bourland's 
negroes  had  left  the  estate,  remarking  with  much  solem 
nity  "  dat  dey  wuz  obliged  to  go  to  Richmon',  sence  de 
word  hed  come  foh  'em." 

Azariah  lined  up  those  who  remained  under  the  trees ; 
there  were  nineteen  in  all. 

"  Tek  off'n  yuh  hats,  you  brack  raskils,"  he  said  sternly 


108  HENRY   BOURLAND 

to  some  of  the  younger  ones,  who  shambled  along. 
"  We'se  all  heah,  all  dat's  aroun',  Marster  Henry,"  he 
added,  turning  with  a  salute  that  was  not  military. 

"Boys,"  said  Bourland,  "you  are  all  free  men  now. 
You  can  go  or  stay,  just  as  you  choose.  I  am  going  to 
remain  here  and  work  the  plantation,  just  as  we  used  to 
do,  and  I  want  some  of  you  to  help  me.  I  haven't  got 
any  money.  I  can't  promise  to  pay  you  more  than  your 
board  and  clothes ;  but,  if  you  will  help  me,  I'll  keep 
you  until  the  end  of  the  year,  and  then,  if  things  turn 
out  well,  I'll  see  what  I  can  do  for  you  in  the  matter  of 
wages.  Now,  those  of  you  who  will  stay,  step  forward." 

He  gave  them  harsh  terms.  But  he  was  not  in  a  posi 
tion  to  offer  them  anything  better.  It  was  a  period  of 
transition  and  uncertainty. 

Eleven  came  forward ;  the  others,  mostly  the  younger 
ones,  held  back.  Against  these  the  wrath  of  Azariah 
burst  forth. 

44  Whut's  de  mattah  wif  you  niggahs,  enyhow  ?  Whut 
do  yuh  t'ink  you'se  a-gwine  ter  do,  now  you'se  free  ?  Jes' 
strut  aroun'  laik  de  tuhkeys  in  de  bahn  yard?  You'se 
troubled,  I  specs,  wif  absence  of  de  brains.  I'se  done  los' 
all  laikin'  foh  yuh." 

44  Let  them  alone,  Aze,"  said  Bourland.  "They  are  at 
liberty  to  make  their  own  choice." 

Two  more  shuffled  forward. 

44  Now,  boys,"  the  young  master  said,  addressing  those 
who  had  elected  to  stay,  44  you  are  still  my  men,  and  I'm 
going  to  do  just  as  well  as  I  can.  Get  to  work  now  and 
clear  up  the  place.  Aze,  I'll  appoint  you  as  overseer  for 
a  while.  You  others,"  he  continued,  "you  can  stay  as 
long  as  you  will  work,  but  when  you  quit  that  you  must 
leave." 

That  same  afternoon  he  went  again  to  Brayton  and 
bought  three  mules  on  credit.  In  addition  he  ordered 
some  seeds.  It  was  his  intention  to  plant  six  hundred 
acres  in  wheat,  corn,  and  tobacco.  He  feared,  with  his  in 
experience,  to  undertake  more.  The  rest  of  the  land  must, 
for  the  time,  lie  fallow. 


ASSETS,  LIABILITIES,  AND    LOSSES  109 

Weary  with  his  unusual  labors,  he  sat  upon  the  portico 
that  evening  debating  a  new  question. 

Yes  !  he  must  come  to  it.  He  must  break  up  a  part  of 
his  estate  into  small  farms  and  sublet  them  to  tenants.  It 
was  a  drastic  innovation.  Planters  in  former  times  had 
guarded  with  jealousy  the  integrity  of  their  inheritances. 
They  refused  not  only  to  sell  an  acre,  but  even  to  rent  small 
patches.  "  Keep  your  land,  and  your  land  will  keep  you," 
was  an  aphorism  which  every  father  impressed  upon  his 
son. 

But  the  times  had  changed,  and  Bourland,  amid  qualms 
of  pride,  resolved  to  post  notices  the  next  day  on  the  court 
house,  offering  to  rent  small  patches  of  land  on  shares. 

The  landscape,  from  where  he  sat,  brought  back  to  his 
remembrance  the  night,  four  years  before,  when  he  came 
joyously  home  with  the  news  of  the  fall  of  Sumter. 

But  what  a  change! 

Then,  —  the  stretches  of  sprouting  field,  the  prospect  of 
ease  and  plenty,  the  serene  satisfaction  of  wealth  and  own 
ership  and  power.  And  now,  —  the  wild  acres,  untouched, 
untilled,  overrun  with  grasses,  brambles,  and  noxious  weeds, 
these,  and  worse  than  these,  the  invisible  menace  of  the 
debts.  The  pride  of  ownership  was  displaced  by  the  con 
sciousness  that  his  land  was  held  in  pawn,  and  that,  in  the 
end,  for  all  his  labor,  he  might  be  evicted  from  his  own 
patrimony  by  the  hand  of  the  law. 

He  grew  timid,  distrustful,  as  he  surveyed  the  task  in  its 
full  magnitude. 

At  last  he  arose  and  went  into  the  house.  He  passed 
into  the  darkening  room  where  those  monitory  faces  looked 
down  from  the  walls,  inexorable  as  the  commandments  on 
the  tables  of  stone  ;  and  as  he  raised  his  eyes,  he  muttered 
with  a  fierce  contraction  of  his  muscles  before  those  silent 
witnesses:  — 

"  Yes,  I  shall  stay  and  battle  it  out,  right  here,  until  the 


CHAPTER   XIV 

THE    PRIVILEGE    OF    MARGARET 

As  the  days  slipped  by,  Bourland  discovered  that  hard 
work  was  a  real  blessing.  It  lifted  his  thoughts  out  of  the 
slough  of  his  misery.  It  made  him  spiritually  stronger. 
He  abstained,  indeed,  as  far  as  possible,  from  the  work  of 
his  hands  ;  for  he  was  yet  a  child  of  the  tradition,  sanc 
tioned  even  by  Jefferson,  that  manual  labor  degrades  a 
white  man.  But  there  were  a  thousand  and  one  things, 
requiring  intelligent  direction  and  careful  supervision,  that 
claimed  all  his  time. 

He  was  a  unique  figure  among  the  men  of  his  neigh 
borhood.  Those  who  returned  from  the  army  found  their 
homes  in  desolation,  their  resources  exhausted,  their  future 
political  condition  uncertain  ;  and  so,  bereft  of  courage, 
they  resigned  themselves  to  fate  and  the  dispositions  of 
the  conquerors. 

Bourland,  however,  soon  acquired  a  measure  of  control 
over  the  chaos  of  his  personal  affairs.  He  made  mistakes 
through  ignorance,  but  when  summer  came  in,  he  had  sev 
eral  hundred  acres  under  prosperous  cultivation,  four  or 
five  patches  were  rented  on  shares,  and  his  obligations  had 
been  renewed  with  an  extension  of  time. 

In  May,  President  Johnson,  by  proclamation,  had  re 
opened  communication  with  the  South.  For  Bourland 
that  meant  letters  from  Margaret,  with  their  consolations 
and  inspirations.  He  had  not  heard  from  her  for  a  long, 
long  time ;  but  his  love  had  survived,  had  become  a  greater 
part  of  him  by  the  trial.  So  when,  at  last,  he  got  his  first 
letter,  he  opened  it  with  the  expectancy  of  a  pearl  diver. 
He  read  it  through  once,  twice,  three  times,  and  then, 
repeating  the  phrases  again  and  again,  he  rode  home  like 

110 


THE  PEIVILEGE  OF  MAKGAKET  111 

one  who  had  received  the  gift  of  eternal  life.  The  air  was 
refulgent  with  diviner  light ;  the  wind  in  the  trees  played 
diviner  harmonies  ;  the  blue  empyrean  drew  downward 
and  enticed  his  soul  from  his  body.  He  could  feel  his 
heart  tugging  at  its  strings. 

*  I  have  prayed  Crod  for  your  safety  night  and  day,  and 
every  hour  of  the  day.  .  .  .  I  know  how  badly  you  feel, 
dearest,  but  I  believe  (rod  has  a  purpose  greater  and  grander 
than  yours,  for  a  reunited  America.  .  .  .  Be  of  good  cour 
age,  my  brave  lover.  I  am  waiting  for  you,  and  I  shall  wait 
for  you  to  come  for  me  in  your  own  good  time." 

He  bent  over  and  flung  his  arms  about  the  neck  of  his 
horse.  He  caressed  him  with  the  tenderness  of  a  child's 
patting.  The  sun  beat  into  his  face  like  warm  rain.  The 
birds  poured  forth  the  jargoning  of  their  own  sweet  joys. 
Every  color  of  the  field  shone  with  intenser  hues.  The 
desolation  became  a  paradise  of  verdure  and  odorous 
blooms,  washed  by  the  golden  radiance  of  a  liberated 
passion. 

He  wanted  to  dismount  right  there,  to  build  an  altar, 
and  burn  a  sacrifice  and  worship  the  deity  of  love. 

He  could  scarcely  wait  for  June.  When  it  came,  he 
snatched  a  few  days  from  his  work  and  started  for  the 
North.  All  the  way  to  Gettysburg  he  gnawed  at  the  tips 
of  his  fingers,  and  soothed  the  pains  by  pressing  them  to 
his  lips. 

As  the  train  neared  the  town,  he  took  a  little  box  from 
his  pocket  a  dozen  times  and  gazed  at  it  furtively.  It 
contained  a  diamond  ring.  Before  he  left  home,  Eleanor 
had  slipped  it  into  his  hand,  and  whispered,  "  Tell  her  it 
comes  from  me  as  a  token  of  welcome." 

The  train  came  to  a  stop.  He  walked  up  the  street. 
He  was  so  nervous  that  he  thought  he  reeled.  He  came 
to  the  house.  He  opened  the  gate.  He  walked  up  the 
gravel  path  to  the  steps.  He  saw  that  the  door  was  ajar. 
He  rang  the  bell  and  waited,  as  a  runner  awaits  the  signal 
of  the  starting.  He  heard  the  rustle  of  a  dress  come  down 
the  dark  hallway,  and,  louder  than  that,  the  thump,  thump, 
thump  of  his  heart. 


112  HENKY   BOURLAND 

She  came,  and  paused,  looking  questioningly  at  the 
bearded  stranger.  The  light  was  behind  him,  and  his 
face  was  in  shadow. 

"  Margaret !  "  he  mumbled,  like  a  beggar  asking  alms. 

His  voice  struck  the  long-silent  chords  into  vibration. 
Her  face  suddenly  began  to  illumine  and  shine  out  of  an 
aureola. 

"  Oh  !  my  Henry  !  "  Her  arms  were  about  him,  draw 
ing  him  down,  and  at  her  lips  he  quenched  his  long  thirst 
with  limpid  sweetness. 

A  moment,  without  sense  of  time  ;  a  sacrament  too  holy 
for  words. 

She  led  him  into  the  room,  and  they  sat  down  side  by 
side,  their  hearts  so  voluble,  their  lips  so  laden  with  things 
that  had  longed  for  utterance,  that  the  silence  was  eloquent 
speech. 

"  Oh  !  "  she  broke  out  finally  with  a  single  exclamation 
that  exalted  him  more  than  a  psean  of  gladness.  She 
touched  him  to  reassure  herself  that  he  was  not  the  phan 
tom  lover  of  two  years'  imaginings.  She  touched  him 
again  to  reassure  herself  that  he  was  really  delivered  to 
her  at  last. 

Then  they  began  to  pour  out  love  lyrics.  It  was  a  gra 
cious  contest  of  troubadours,  each  praising  and  prizing  the 
rival. 

He  thought  of  the  ring,  and  took  it  from  his  pocket. 
The  touch  of  it,  as  he  slipped  it  on  her  finger,  thrilled  her 
as  the  chrismal  rite  of  love's  ritual.  She  looked  with  awe 
at  the  glint  of  the  diamonds  in  the  setting  of  worn  gold. 

"Now,"  he  said  gayly,  "I  have  put  my  seal  on  you." 

A  shadow  of  indecision  hung  over  her  face. 

"  Out  with  it.  No  secrets  now,  my  lady,"  he  cried 
quickly. 

"  I'm  just  a  bit  timid,"  she  answered.  "  Your  relatives 
have  been  such  impressive  people.  Why,  I've  read  lots 
about  them  in  American  histories.  I'm  afraid  I'm  com 
ing  into  the  family  like  a  no-name,  a  Cinderella." 

She  stopped,  for  his  face  wore  a  look  of  pain.  He 
flushed  as  he  recalled  that  first  hesitation,  that  pride  of 


THE   PRIVILEGE   OF   MARGARET  113 

social  prejudice.  But  with  a  sudden  thought  he  arose, 
and  bent  low  before  her,  as  a  liegeman  might  do  before 
an  imperial  mistress,  saying  :  — 

"  I  think  of  you,  Margaret,  as  Raleigh  thought  of  his 
queen.  But  the  gift  of  your  love  has  knighted  me,  and 
has  raised  me  to  the  height  of  your  royalty." 

She  took  the  homage  at  first  with  a  little  laugh  of  pro 
testation,  and  then  when  she  saw  that  his  manner  gave 
sincerity  to  his  words,  she  felt  a  new  joy  in  this  vindica 
tion  of  natural  dignity.  That  was  an  end  of  it ;  the  tact 
of  the  gentleman  had  obliterated  forever  between  them  the 
irrational  line  of  social  distinction. 

The  entrance  of  the  father  and  the  mother  put  an  end 
to  love  lyrics  and  troubadour  tales  for  a  time.  They 
greeted  him  with  the  cordiality  of  kinship,  and  in  a  few 
moments  the  talk  drifted  inevitably  to  present  political 
conditions. 

"  The  Radicals  are  going  to  get  control  of  things,  I 
fear,"  said  General  Randall.  "  And  they  will  keep  the 
kettle  boiling.  If  Thaddeus  Stevens  and  his  crowd  put 
through  their  reconstruction  scheme,  the  South  will  get 
some  bitter  medicine." 

"  We've  heard  a  great  deal  about  old  Thad  of  late," 
replied  Bourland.  "  His  endeavors  to  canonize  the  niggers 
into  saints  have  irritated  us  beyond  measure.  I  can  only 
say  for  my  people  that  just  now  they  are  as  sensitive  as 
bared  nerves.  We  are  beaten,  but  we  feel  that  we  have 
preserved  our  honor  and  our  dignity.  If  the  Radicals  try 
to  humiliate  us,  and  subject  us  to  indignities,  there  will  be 
a  great  deal  more  blood  shed,  even  if  the  war  is  over." 

"  I'm  afraid  of  them.  It  would  have  been  all  right  if 
Lincoln  had  lived.  I  think  the  greatest  desire  of  that 
man  was,  as  he  said,  to  bind  up  the  nation's  wounds.  His 
death  at  this  critical  moment  almost  makes  one  doubt 
that  there  is  any  such  power  as  Providence." 

During  Bourland's  visit  the  two  men  frequently  dis 
cussed  the  problem  of  reconstruction  and  the  return  of 
the  Confederates  to  their  constitutional  rights.  It  was  in 
those  days  the  all-absorbing  riddle  which  every  man  put 


114  HENRY   BOURLAND 

to  his  neighbor.  The  wise  counselled  moderation  and 
magnanimity.  For  the  South  lay  bleeding,  like  a  knight 
unhorsed  in  a  tournament.  If  it  were  helped  to  arise 
with  knightly  courtesy,  a  speedy  reconciliation  of  the  two 
sections  was  more  than  possible.  But  the  Radicals,  led  by 
Stevens,  were  clamoring  for  a  policy  of  punishment  and 
humiliation. 

For  Bourland  and  Margaret  the  days  sped  as  if  they 
were  borne  on  the  wings  of  the  wind.  He  quaffed  every 
delicious  moment,  like  a  parched  soldier  draining  the  last 
drops  of  his  canteen. 

On  the  eve  of  his  departure,  late  in  the  afternoon,  when 
the  summer  was  in  the  full  tide  of  June,  and  the  fields  of 
corn  and  wheat  were  burnished  by  the  glow  of  warm  sun 
shine,  and  when  the  clouds  were  drifting  lazily  across 
the  blue  heavens,  they  rambled  up  to  that  elevated  rock, 
that  shrine,  where  two  years  before,  amid  the  animosities 
and  charities  of  civil  war,  they  had  made  the  timid  confes 
sion  of  love  that  had  drawn  their  severed  lives  into  a  single 
impulse  of  being. 

"I  can't  understand  it  yet,  Margaret,"  he  declared. 
"  How  could  you  fall  in  love  with  me,  a  cripple,  brought 
half  dead  from  a  battle-field,  and  an  enemy,  too  ?  It  seems 
a  miracle  to  me." 

"  Why,  it  was  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world,"  she 
replied.  "  It  just  grew  like  a  little  seed." 

"  Then  you  didn't  love  me  at  first  sight  ?  " 

"Certainly  not.  Girls,  sensible  girls,  never  do  that. 
We  leave  that  to  the  men  ;  it's  so  stupid,  in  spite  of  poets 
and  novelists." 

"  Tell  me  how  it  all  came  about,  dear,  won't  you  ?  It 
will  give  me  something  to  gloat  over  when  I  am  absent." 

She  flouted  such  an  analysis  at  first ;  but  when  he 
urged  her  again,  she  nestled  at  his  feet,  while  he  reclined 
upon  a  mound  of  turf. 

"  Well,"  she  began,  "  in  the  first  place,  it  was  an  acci 
dent.  I  heard  some  of  the  soldiers  tell  how  many  brave 
men  had  fallen  in  the  Bloody  Angle ;  and,  after  the 
regular  hospital  corps  had  gone  over  the  ground  for  the 


THE   PRIVILEGE   OF   MARGARET  115 

wounded,  something  prompted  me,  I  guess  it  was  Ruth, 
to  go  gleaning  in  that  harvest  of  heroes." 

"So,  then,"  he  broke  in  playfully,  "you  went  out  to 
glean  for  a  man,  a  hero  all  your  own  ?  " 

She  tossed  her  head  pertly. 

"If  you  banter  me,  I  shall  not  say  another  word.  I 
only  wanted  to  do  all  that  a  woman  could  at  that  dread 
ful  time.  If  I  had  desired  a  hero,  I  should  have  had  him 
long  before  I  ever  saw  you,  and  he  would  have  been  a 
man  in  blue.  There  were  plenty  of  blue  heroes." 

"  But  none  so  fortunate  as  a  man  in  gray.  Forgive 
me;  go  on,  please." 

"  We  found  you  and  several  others  on  the  field,"  she 
continued.  "  You  were  all  taken  to  the  college.  I 
almost  forgot  you,  there  were  so  many  things  to  think 
about.  But  I  came  across  you  again  in  the  hospital,  and 
heard  such  awful  reports  of  your  peevishness  that  I 
thought  you  must  be  one  of  those  pampered  snobs.  The 
surgeons  were  irritated  because  you  wouldn't  let  them  cut 
off  your  leg,  and  the  nurses  hated  to  go  near  you,  because 
you  were  such  an  old  bear.  c  Well,'  I  thought,  4  he  must 
be  a  very  superior  person — one  of  these  Southern  aristo 
crats.'  So,  more  out  of  curiosity  than  anything  else,  I 
went  in  to  see  you,  though  I  confess  I  was  rather  timid. 
But  I  found  you  as  tame  as  a  pussy  cat." 

"I  recognized  you.     You  had  saved  me  from  death." 

"You  were  so  agreeable,  that  I  put  you  on  my  daily 
visiting  list.  I  found  you  very  entertaining,  and  you 
had  very  distinguished  manners.  At  times,  even  to  me, 
you  were  very  fretful.  But  I  always  noticed  that  when 
you  did  lose  your  temper,  you  became  very  quickly 
remorseful.  Indeed,  I  found  that  I  was  a  lion  tamer,  for 
with  me  you  were  as  gentle  as  a  bleating  lamb.  That 
made  me  very  proud." 

"  You  had  a  soothing  influence,"  he  confessed. 

"  Of  course  that  excited  my  interest  somewhat,  though 
not  very  much.  For  you  were  a  very  narrow-minded  rebel, 
and  not  altogether  endurable,  in  spite  of  your  manners. 
Then  I  discovered  that  you  were  a  schoolmate's  brother. 


116  HENRY   BOURLAND 

It  was  such  a  coincidence.  It  opened  the  way  to  more 
confidential  subjects  of  conversation,  and  I  learned  how 
devoted  you  were  to  your  family,  especially  your  sister, 
and  what  an  honest,  loyal  rebel  you  were.  In  fact,  you 
changed  my  ideas  about  rebels.  I  thought  before  that 
they  were  either  swearing  braggarts  or  disagreeable 
snobs,  full  of  conceit." 

"  And  you  changed  my  ideas  about  the  Yankees.  I 
thought  they  were  hypocrites  and  fanatics.  But  hadn't 
you  begun  to  care  for  me  yet?  Why,  by  this  time  I  was 
madly  in  love  with  you." 

"  Of  course  not.  But  I  will  confess  that  unconsciously 
I  began  to  shorten  my  visits  to  the  other  wounded  men, 
and  to  get  impatient  —  just  a  little  bit,  not  very  much," 
she  protested,  "  for  your  turn.  I  saved  you  till  the  last 
as  a  reward  for  my  other  work." 

"  Now  we  are  at  the  beginning,  aren't  we  ?  "  He  was 
growing  restive,  like  a  captive  animal  before  feeding  time. 

"  No,  not  yet,  I  never  thought  cf  such  a  thing.  You 
were  still  only  a  very  interesting  man.  I  remember  very 
distinctly  when  it  first  came  to  me." 

"  When  was  that?  "  he  asked,  sitting  upright. 

"  It  was  the  day  when  you  ordered  me  about  so  imperi 
ously.  I  was  scared,  because  I  wanted  to  obey  you.  I 
went  away  feeling  that  it  was  you  who  had  the  power  over 
me  now.  I  can't  analyze  the  feeling.  I  know  only  that 
my  heart  was  a  painful  lump  of  gladness  whenever  I  thought 
of  serving  you.  I  guess  it's  because  I'm  a  woman." 

"  But  you  didn't  obey ;  you  ran  off  and  left  me  in 
agony,"  he  protested  with  a  puzzled  look. 

"  Then  came  the  revelation,"  she  continued.  "  I  went 
home  that  day,  and  found  that  mother  was  obliged  to  go 
to  the  seashore  at  once  for  her  health,  and  I  found  that  —  " 

She  hesitated,  and  dropped  her  eyes,  as  if  about  to  con 
fess  something  to  her  shame. 

"  Tell  me  all,  dearest,"  he  urged. 

Then  she  looked  up  into  his  eager  face  and  spoke 
proudly :  — 

"  Though  it  was  for  my  mother,  I  didn't  want  to  leave. 


THE  PRIVILEGE   OF   MARGARET  117 

I  was  afraid  I  should  never  see  you  again.  Then  I  knew 
that  I  loved  you." 

He  bent  down  to  pay  homage  to  the  lips  that  had  made 
such  a  confession.  The  rest  of  the  story  was  told  with 
delicious  tremors  of  sacrificial  dignity. 

"  But  I  did  go,  and  all  the  time  I  was  away  I  thought 
of  you,  and  dreamed  of  you,  and  was  afraid  you  would  be 
taken  away  during  my  absence.  And  those  fears  were  the 
sweet  pangs  of  something  being  born.  It  was  love  at  last, 
dearest.  I  used  to  talk  to  it,  and  press  it  close  to  me  like 
a  baby.  It  cried  for  you.  I  wanted  to  write  you  a  letter, 
but  I  couldn't.  When  I  came  back,  I  didn't  know  what 
to  do.  How  could  I  continue  visiting  you,  throwing  my 
self  at  you,  it  seemed,  without  losing  my  womanliness  ?  " 

"  But  you  did  come,  you  Sweet  Heart !  "  he  broke  out 
impetuously.  "  You  came  with  your  cold-blooded  indiffer 
ence,  which  was  only  beautiful  shamming." 

"  Don't  call  it  shamming,"  she  pleaded.  "  It  was  only  a 
woman's  compromise  with  circumstances.  Call  it  rather 
a  dignified  reticence." 

"  But  didn't  you  know  that  I  loved  you  long  before  ?  " 

"  Why,  no ;  how  could  I  tell  that  ?  Wounded  men  in 
hospitals  are  always  so  awfully  susceptible  to  nurses. 
They  become  weak-minded  and  sentimental  there.  Be 
sides,  you  Southern  men  have  got  a  bad  reputation  for 
passing  fancies  and  fickleness." 

"  Don't  you  think  it  was  a  miracle,  after  all?  " 

"Well,"  she  assented,  "with  all  the  obstacles,  it  does 
seem  rather  strange,  doesn't  it  ?  " 

He  arose  and  walked  about  with  restless  energy. 

"  Oh,  Margaret !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  how  I  shall  work, 
when  I  go  back,  to  make  things  decent  enough  for  you. 
But  how  can  I  wait  so  long  ?  It  may  take  years." 

She  looked  at  him  with  surprise. 

"  Years  ?  "  she  repeated,  as  if  the  word  came  from  an 
alien  language. 

"I  have  nothing  to  offer  you  now,"  he  said  sadly. 
"  We  are  all  in  poverty  in  the  South,  and  I  wouldn't  ask 
you  to  share  that  with  me.  I  wouldn't  let  you.  I  want 


118  HENRY  BOURLAND 

to  give  you  the  home  and  position  due  to  the  wife  of  a 
Bourland." 

While  he  was  speaking  she  walked  up  to  him,  put  her 
arms  over  his  shoulders,  and  clasped  her  hands  behind 
him  ;  then,  without  any  faltering  or  indecision,  looking 
him  bravely  in  the  face,  she  said  :  — 

"  Do  you  think  I  am  going  to  let  you  worry  and  fret 
and  struggle  alone  ?  You  say  you  love  me,  Henry,  and 
now  I  demand  the  rights  of  that  love,  and  that  is  my 
place  beside  you.  You  shall  not  work  alone.  If  you 
succeed,  we  shall  enjoy  that  success  together.  And  if  you 
fail,  as  God  lives,  I  shall  be  with  you  in  the  worst." 

"  Oh  !  Margaret,  I  cannot  consent  to  such  a  thing. 
You  do  not  know  what  you  are  saying." 

"  Henry,"  she  answered  with  firm  yet  lovable  resolu 
tion,  "  this  matter  is  not  to  be  argued.  It  is  a  woman's 
privilege  to  name  the  day  of  her  marriage.  I  claim  it 
now.  In  September  you  must  come  up  here  again,  and 
take  me  home  to  your  Southland." 

Before  his  eyes,  all  around,  the  landscape  began  to 
swim  and  melt  into  gray  dimness.  He  saw  only  her,  — 
a  glorious,  impalpable  shining  of  soul-flame.  He  saw  her 
as  a  messenger  of  hope  and  strength,  that  had  been  sent 
unto  him.  His  ears  caught  the  faint  whisperings  of  the 
watchful  Benevolence. 

Then  he  became  aware  of  the  touch  of  her  hands,  the 
warm  weight  of  her  body,  her  voice  muffled  in  by  his 
breast. 

"  I  think  I  can  help.     You  won't  deny  me,  dearest  ?  " 

So  love  made  a  new  consecration  upon  that  shrine  of 
rock.  Below,  in  full  view,  lay  the  valley  of  battle,  now 
beautiful  again  with  verdure  and  peace.  As  they  looked 
upon  it,  this  Northern  girl  and  the  Southern  soldier,  they 
felt  that  they  were  actors  in  one  of  God's  divine  healing 
processes. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  BRIDES   OF   LIFE   AND   OF   DEATH 

SEPTEMBER  came,  and  before  its  close  Bourland  went 
north  again  for  his  bride. 

Eleanor  remained  at  the  Hall.  He  protested  against 
this,  but  she  would  not  alter  her  determination.  "Of 
course  I  shall  stay,"  she  said.  "  What  Bourland  ever 
brought  his  lady  home  to  an  empty  house  ?  Besides,"  she 
added  with  a  pang  that  gave  a  tenseness  to  her  smiling, 
"  I  want  to  be  alone  during  my  last  days  as  mistress  of 
the  Hall." 

An  intruder  was  coming.  Yes,  she  knew  that.  But 
without  a  word  of  complaint  she  fortified  herself  for  the 
abdication.  Yet  she  was  a  woman,  and  the  thought  of 
being  displaced,  of  living  under  a  stranger  in  her  own 
home,  was  a  cup  of  humiliation,  bitter,  hidden,  perpetual. 

She  had  taken  daily  counsels  of  her  strength,  and  the 
self-conquests  had  disciplined  and  clarified  the  spirit  into 
a  finer  essence,  had  mellowed  her  countenance  into  the 
supreme  beauty  of  resignation.  The  wear  and  crush  of 
sorrow  had  left  her  prematurely  old  —  a  girl  in  years 
with  only  the  memory  of  frustrated  girlhood.  The  strong 
passion  of  youth  had  taken  wings,  and  had  left  her  serene 
in  the  lucid  dusk  of  romance. 

The  day  came  when,  after  their  short  wedding  journey, 
her  brother  and  his  wife  were  to  arrive. 

Eleanor  had  begun  to  make  the  Hall  ready  for  the  new 
mistress  ;  and  she  had  done  what  she  could  to  restore  the 
aspect  of  its  former  splendor.  But  in  spite  of  her  efforts 
it  remained,  in  her  comparisons,  a  poverty-stricken  house. 
She,  who  remembered  so  well  the  grandeur  and  ceremony 
of  their  earlier  days,  now  felt  that  its  glory  was  gone. 

Her   loving    solicitude,   however,   had    endeavored    to 

119 


120  HENRY  BOURLAND 

make  it  habitable  and  proudly  decent.  The  carpets  had 
been  swept  and  swept,  yet  they  would  not  brighten.  The 
wall  papers  had  been  scoured  with  stale  bread  and  dry 
cloths,  yet  they  still  remained  dingy.  The  furniture  had 
been  rubbed,  but  it  would  not  shine.  And  the  linen,  that 
sure  symptom  of  domestic  prosperity,  sew  and  patch  as 
she  might,  could  not  be  restored  to  its  former  stiffness 
and  gloss.  Some  autumn  flowers  and  grasses  added  a 
touch  of  natural  freshness  and  color  to  the  rooms.  But 
at  the  end  of  her  exertions  the  Hall  and  its  appointments 
remained  in  her  eyes  what  gossiping  neighbors  call 
"shabby  genteel." 

When  the  hour  approached  for  the  coming  of  the  bride, 
she  went  upstairs  to  dress  for  the  reception.  She  opened 
the  wardrobe  where  hung  the  ceremonial  garments.  It 
had  received  no  recent  additions.  The  close  air  was  still 
redolent  of  camphor  and  Tonquin  bean.  Upon  the  shelves 
were  lacquered  boxes  of  sandal  and  olive  wood,  memorials 
of  former  affluence.  Upon  the  hooks  were  the  dresses  of 
her  mother's  youth  beside  her  own  ;  lustrings,  puce  bro 
cades,  green  and  lavender  silks  smelling  of  attar  of  roses 
and  antiquity.  They  would  never  again  gayly  rustle  under 
the  glare  of  lighted  halls  to  the  music  of  violin  and  harp 
sichord. 

She  chose  a  black  silk  with  purple  pin  stripes,  and  in 
this,  touched  off  with  a  black  lace  neckerchief  and  a 
medallion  brooch,  she  descended  to  greet  her  brother's 
wife. 

At  last  she  heard  the  quick  tramp  of  the  horses  on  the 
gravel.  The  lonely  sense  of  an  exile,  an  outcast,  took 
possession  of  her.  Henceforth  her  life  was  to  be  a  kind 
of  sufferance,  and  she  was  to  be  homeless  in  her  own 
home. 

She  went  out  to  meet  them  as  the  carriage  wheel  scraped 
against  the  stone  steps. 

"  Eleanor,"  Bourland  called  out  gayly,  "  here's  a  sister 
for  you,  and  she's  very  hungry." 

She  gave  the  bride  a  welcome  instinct  with  the  dignity 
and  cordiality  of  a  lady  of  Virginia. 


THE   BRIDES  OF   LIFE  AND  OF  DEATH      121 

"  Oh,  Eleanor  !  "  broke  out  Margaret,  like  a  schoolgirl, 
"  I  haven't  seen  you  for  six  long  years,  and  here  you  are, 
your  dear  old  self."  Then  her  voice  became  tenderer  as 
she  put  her  arms  about  her  friend's  sorrow  and  loneliness, 
and  embraced  her  like  Ruth.  "  What  terrible  years  they 
have  been.  Henry  has  been  telling  me  of  your  heroism. 
You  have  been  so  brave  and  noble  and  helpful.  And  so 
much  has  been  taken  out  of  your  life.  Can't  I  fill  up 
some  of  the  void  ?  Can't  you  take  a  sister  into  it  ?  " 

It  was  the  sweet  voice  which  availed  more  than  the 
words ;  and  Eleanor,  whose  empty  heart  was  craving  for 
affection  of  some  kind,  kissed  her  in  the  unspoken  com 
radeship  of  that  love  which  has  been  so  rare  among 
women. 

"  Oh,  Margaret  !  "  she  answered,  throwing  off  her  re 
serve,  "  everything  is  very  different  now.  It  is  so  hard 
to  be  down  in  the  world,  to  have  nothing,  when  in  former 
times  one  had  so  much." 

"  Hush,"  answered  Margaret.  "  Don't  speak  of  that. 
Sometimes  earthly  losses  are  the  greatest  blessings." 

"  Well,  then,"  cried  Bourland,  jocularly,  to  relieve  the 
tension,  "you  don't  believe  that  when  poverty  comes 
love  flies  out  of  the  window  ? " 

"  Poverty,  sir  ?  "  answered  Margaret,  turning.  "  Do 
you  know  that  you  have  been  telling  your  wife  great  big 
fibs  ?  Why,  from  what  you  said,  I  expected  when  I  got 
down  here  to  find  a  front  yard  all  choked  up  with  weeds 
and  thorns,  a  house  crumbling  to  pieces,  with  great  cracks 
in  the  walls,  doors  swinging  on  one  hinge,  and  broken 
windows  pasted  up  with  brown  paper.  That's  what  I 
thought  I  should  see,  sir."  Then  she  looked  into  the 
landscape  and  exclaimed,  with  a  gardener's  admiration  : 
"  Oh  !  but  isn't  this  glorious  !  How  my  mother  would 
like  to  plant  her  flowers  in  such  a  lawn  !  Look  at  these 
trees  !  We  thought  we  were  rich  with  half  a  dozen. 
And  these  great  big  Doric  pillars  !  They  stand  there 
holding  up  the  house  like  four  Titans.  Don't  you  ever 
talk  to  them  and  ask  them  how  they  feel  ?  " 

The  brother  and  the  sister  were  surprised  at  this  unex- 


122  HENRY  BOURLAND 

pected  appreciation.  She  almost  revived  their  own 
enthusiasm. 

As  she  gazed  again  at  the  scenery  in  another  direction, 
her  ecstasies  broke  out  once  more. 

"  Oh,  what  a  view  !  It  is  a  perfect  picture  for  Corot. 
Tall  trees  in  the  foreground,  with  romantic  shadows,  and 
a  pearl  vista  of  the  far  distance.  All  it  needs  is  somebody 
with  a  red  cap  and  a  crook  to  complete  it.  It  is  positively 
idyllic." 

For  a  time  she  studied  the  prospect  like  a  nature  lover, 
but  soon  turning  to  her  husband,  she  asked  in  grateful 
tones :  — 

"  Did  you  mean  to  surprise  me  like  this,  dear  ?  " 

"Why,  no,"  he  replied  rather  sadly.  "I  thought  I 
was  telling  you  the  truth.  To  my  eyes  everything  is 
suggestive  of  poverty  and  ruin."  He  was  thinking  of 
that  which  was  not  visible  in  the  landscape  —  the  debts. 

But  under  the  spell  of  her  happiness  even  these  became 
less  able  to  depress  him.  She  had  come  like  Aurora  in 
triumph,  and  under  her  influence  the  whole  plantation 
became  illumined  by  the  rosy  brightness  of  dawn  and  the 
promise  of  a  new  day  of  gladness. 

When  she  crossed  the  threshold,  the  spirit  of  enchant 
ment  went  with  her.  The  gloomy  atmosphere  of  the 
house  was  permeated  by  a  new  warmth.  The  spacious 
stairway,  the  substantial  woodwork,  the  severe,  simple 
designs  of  the  decoration,  the  heavy  mahogany  furniture, 
drew  from  her,  one  by  one,  exclamations  of  genuine 
delight. 

"  See  here,  Margaret,"  said  Bourland,  "  this  is  all  put  on 
to  ease  our  feelings.  How  can  you  say  such  things  about 
a  lot  of  old  rubbish  that  a  pedler  wouldn't  take  for  a  gift  ?  " 

She  defended  herself  like  a  true  connoisseur. 

"  I  love  old  things,"  she  answered,  "  that  show  the  marks 
of  wear  and  service.  To  me  they  are  all  the  dearer  for 
their  scars  and  scratches  and  faded  colors.  They  appeal 
so  much  more  to  the  imagination  than  new  things  with 
their  glitter  and  gloss.  New  things  are  like  young  soldiers 
on  parade,  all  very  pretty  for  show ;  but  when  you  want 


THE   BRIDES   OF   LIFE   AND   OF   DEATH      123 

something  to  venerate,  you  have  to  turn  to  the  old  veterans, 
and  you  love  them  all  the  more  because  they  limp  and  drag 
themselves  along  in  broken  lines." 

All  this  while  the  affection  of  Eleanor  was  awakening 
for  the  newcomer.  She  was  to  be  no  intruder,  after  all. 
Her  coming  meant  simply  that  the  house  was  to  be  more 
full  of  human  affection  —  affection  for  each  other  and  for 
the  place  itself. 

They  took  her  into  the  parlor  last  of  all.  She  was  deeply 
impressed  by  the  portraits.  Before  them  she  spoke  little, 
until,  after  examining  them  carefully,  she  said  rather 
solemnly :  — 

"  I  don't  wonder  you  think  so  much  of  your  families 
down  here.  They  aren't  really  dead  to  you ;  they  seem 
to  be  still  living  with  you,  and  looking  on." 

If  the  lips  of  those  ancestors  could  have  spoken,  they 
must  surely  have  given  her  a  welcome  into  their  kinship. 

After  supper  Bourland  and  Margaret  went  out  for  a 
walk  about  the  plantation,  and  Eleanor  was  left  alone. 

Her  life,  she  felt  now,  was  entering  upon  a  new  phase. 
Youth,  with  its  hopes  and  promises,  was  passing  away.  She 
had  missed  its  fulfilment ;  that  fruition  of  love  which  the 
war  had  blasted ;  that  completion  of  Nature's  purpose  in 
the  duties  of  wife  and  motherhood.  Her  brother  was 
more  fortunate.  But  she  did  not  begrudge  him  his 
happiness,  although  its  lustre  deepened  the  shadow  in 
the  void  of  her  own  sorrow. 

There  was  the  future  spread  before  her  eyes  —  a  quies 
cent  sea  with  a  haven  of  solitude.  Her  life  was  entering 
prematurely  into  the  serener,  unromantic  days,  when  desires 
grow  less  ;  when  dreams  cease  their  vain  prayers  before  the 
inexorable  shrine  of  necessity  ;  when  the  soul,  less  anxious 
for  the  morrow,  is  content  to  feed,  like  cattle  in  the  pas 
ture,  upon  the  simple  fare  of  Nature's  daily  offering. 

Ah  !  how  in  that  moment  her  heart  cried  out  in  its 
unvoiced  language.  But  the  voice  of  consolation,  of  the 
chosen  comrade,  the  one  voice  that  could  satisfy  the  need, 
was  hushed  forever  in  a  soldier's  grave,  far  away  on  some 
lone  hillside  of  Tennessee. 


124  HENRY  BOUKLAND 

She  went  over  to  her  piano.  She  leaned  upon  it. 
Often  it  seemed  that  the  instrument  had  a  soul  of  its  own. 
She  could  speak  to  it  and  tell  it  her  secrets,  and  it  drew 
from  her,  like  an  unguent,  the  dolor  of  her  inward  bruise. 
It  was  a  confidant,  listening  patiently  with  soothing  re 
sponses.  And  it  would  never  betray  her  ;  only  echo,  as 
from  a  grave,  all  her  vain  longings,  softened,  subdued, 
chastened  into  heroic  endurance. 

Unconsciously  her  fingers,  touching  the  keys,  slipped 
into  the  melody  of  that  lover's  hymn,  that  invocation 
which,  in  some  rare  moment,  the  barbaric  German  had 
written  for  those  whose  lives  are  transfigured  into  saintly 
resignation  by  the  breaking  of  their  hearts  — 

"  O  thou  sublime,  sweet  evening  star  1  " 

She  saw  the  star  shining  into  that  darkened  room,  faint, 
yet  luminous  in  the  far  skies  —  the  symbol  of  her  lover's 
spirit,  watching.  It  drew  her  away  from  the  earth.  In 
her  revery  she  was  lured  out  of  the  eddy  and  whirl  of  time 
into  a  clearer,  rarer  atmosphere  without  motion  or  change. 
She  was  lost  in  a  vagueness,  into  the  mist  of  which,  with 
mystic  power,  the  soft,  slow  strains  of  the  music  entered 
like  a  balm  ;  and  she  could  feel  that  from  that  symbol,  out 
of  a  region  dimly  descried,  there  came  an  effluence,  a  lucid 
stream,  which  washed  from  her  soul  the  corrosive  sorrow, 
the  grief  of  severance,  and  the  tang  of  this  bitter  solitude. 

When  the  mood  of  revery  passed,  her  fingers  were  still 
gliding  over  the  keys  ;  but  she  had  been  lifted  above  the 
darker  shadow. 

Unawares  Henry  and  Margaret  had  stolen  into  the  room. 

"  Oh !  I  love  that  song  so  much !  Won't  you  play  it 
again  ?  "  asked  Margaret,  not  knowing  its  significance  to 
the  player. 

"  Not  to-night,  please,"  pleaded  Eleanor,  gently.  "  Some 
other  time.  It  is  so  much  like  one's  evening  prayer." 

Margaret's  intuition  divined  the  motive  of  her  reluc 
tance,  and  with  a  deft  phrase  she  drifted  to  other  things. 

After  some  conversation,  Eleanor  left  the  two  lovers 
before  a  cheerful  fire  and  went  upstairs  to  her  own  room. 


THE  BRIDES  OF  LIFE  AND  OF  DEATH      125 

She  entered  it  with  a  sensation  strangely  new,  like  that 
of  a  neophyte,  passing  for  the  first  time  into  the  silence  of 
her  oratory. 

Weary  after  the  day's  strain,  she  sat  down  in  an  arm 
chair.  A  delicious  fatigue  closed  the  avenues  to  all  out 
ward  impressions,  allayed  her  mental  faculties,  and  left  a 
dim  consciousness  to  brood  and  gloat,  with  a  miser's  ava 
rice,  over  the  treasury  of  memory. 

She  was  leaning  upon  the  wooden  railing  of  a  bridge  ; 
the  waters  beneath  gurgled  in  the  darkness,  and  sped  x>n. 
A  long  path  in  the  sky  gleamed  with  the  showering  stars 
of  the  Milky  Way.  The  breeze  bore  from  the  fields  the 
chill  odors  of  an  October  night.  There  was  a  man  beside 
her.  He  had  just  pointed  out  the  rising  group  of  Orion, 
and  in  the  act  had  bent  so  close  that  some  of  her  stray  hairs 
had  blown  into  his  eyes. 

"  Eleanor  !  "  his  voice  had  changed  from  the  cold  science 
of  astronomy  to  the  tenderness  of  a  man.  "  Eleanor,  I 
have  often  wished  that  we  might  slip  into  each  other's  lives 
completely  without  —  without  even  the  need  of  words.  I 
have  hoped  that  my  love  might  need  no  messengers,  and 
that  you  might  see,  and  know,  and  come  to  me  of  your 
own  will." 

Fearful  of  the  duty  that  might  soon  call  him  to  war,  she 
laid  her  love  upon  the  altar  of  his  broad  breast,  and  gave 
her  life  into  his  keeping.  She  felt  the  pressure  of  his 
clasp,  which  would  not  let  her  go,  but  which,  by  its  own 
restraint,  gave  token  of  his  deference  to  her  frailty.  She 
felt  the  sweet,  inexpressible  ecstasy  of  the  voluntary 
imprisonment  in  his  arms. 

She  awoke  slowly,  still  under  the  spell  of  her  memory. 
A  chill  in  the  air  dispelled  the  illusion.  She  became  con 
scious  of  the  reality.  She  was  alone  in  her  room. 

Ah  !  that  life  might  be  all  dreams  of  desire. 

She  went  to  her  desk,  opened  a  drawer,  and  took  out 
the  secreted,  the  oft-fondled  memorials  :  a  cameo  ring,  a 
pocket  picture  of  herself,  a  little  note-book,  and  a  bundle 
of  letters  tied  with  a  white  ribbon  —  gleanings  from  the 
battle-field. 


126  HENRY  BOURLAND 

She  opened  first  the  diary  and  read  again  the  conversa 
tions  which  he,  far  distant  in  the  field,  had  imagined  him 
self  to  be  holding  with  her.  Some  of  them  she  murmured 
aloud,  as  if  endeavoring  to  revive  his  voice. 

"June  21st.  We  slept  last  night  under  the  open  sky.  There  was 
some  firing  on  our  left  after  dark.  To-day  a  bullet  cut  open  the 
pocket  of  my  coat.  It  made  my  heart  jump  and  think  of  you,  Eleanor. 
I  pray  God  for  your  sake  thatl  may  be  spared. 

"August  19th.  We  shall  probably  have  a  general  engagement  to 
rn  ojrow.  We  have  been  idle  so  long  in  camp  that  the  men  are  chaf 
ing  to  fight.  I  cannot  reconcile  this  eagerness  to  dare  death  with  love 
for  those  at  home.  It  seems  to  me  very  thoughtless  and  selfish.  War 
certainly  does  obscure  all  the  human  feelings.  I  feel  eager  to  fight, 
myself,  yet  I  do  want  to  live.  You  know  that,  my  darling,  don't  you  ? 
I  shall  not  flinch,  Eleanor.  Don't  misunderstand  me.  I  love  you  pas 
sionately.  Yet  love  must  yield  to  duty,  though  it  demand  the  death 
of  love.  I  love  you,  dearest,  far  more  than  life,  yet  because  I  love  you, 
I  love  my  life.  It  is  very  harsh  and  ironical,  isn't  it,  dear? 

"August  21st.  I  am  writing  in  the  trenches  which  we  captured  at 
five  o'clock.  The  surgeons  are  attending  to  the  wounded.  How  the 
brave  boys  suffer !  I  am  almost  played  out.  Eleanor,  you  know  I 
wrote  you  about  Tom  James.  Poor  fellow ;  he  is  gone.  Oh !  how 
I  feel  it.  We  had  some  warm  words  last  night.  It  was  my  fault.  I 
meant  to  beg  his  pardon ;  but  now,  I  never  can. 

"  October  19th.  This  is  the  one  day  in  all  the  year  for  me ;  and  you, 
my  darling,  you  only,  know  the  reason  why.  It's  our  secret,  isn't  it, 
dear?  God  knows  how  many  times  to-day  I  have  seen  your  sweet 
face  shining  out  of  the  midst  of  smoke  and  blazing  guns. 

"  October  24th.  We  shall  have  another  battle  to-morrow.  The  Yan 
kees  have  been  reenforced,  and  we  are  in  a  tight  place.  If  this  should 
be  my  last  fight,  oh,  my  darling  Eleanor,  remember  I  fought  for  my 
country,  and  I  died  loving  you.  Good-by,  my  precious  love,  if  this 
should  be  the  end.  Do  not  forget  me." 

The  entries  stopped  there.     It  was  his  last  fight. 

She  put  down  the  book,  and  untied  the  packet  of  letters, 
and  read  them,  slowly ;  at  the  end  of  each,  she  pressed 
her  lips  to  the  paper,  and  kissed  the  spot  where  he  had 
signed  his  name. 

She  was  still  reading  when  steps  became  audible  in  the 
hallway.  Voices  bade  her  good  night.  The  bride  and 
her  lover  then  passed  into  the  opposite  room,  and  closed 
the  door.  She  could  see  by  the  luminous  trees  that  they 
had  lighted  the  lamp,  and  that,  shortly  after,  the  bridal 
torch  was  extinguished. 


THE   BRIDES   OF   LIFE   AND   OF   DEATH      127 

She  continued  to  read  amid  the  oppressive  night  silence 
of  the  house,  and  when  she  finished,  she  restored  the  sacred 
treasures  to  their  secret  place  in  her  desk. 

She  had  not  shed  a  tear.  Grief  had  been  condemned  to 
a  life  sentence  in  the  cell  of  her  heart,  and  it  was  long 
since  an  arid  abiding  place. 

At  last  she  disrobed  herself  of  her  sable  garments,  and 
put  out  the  light.  She  slipped  into  the  cold,  cheerless 
linen  of  the  great  mahogany  bed.  It  had  been  her  nest 
since  her  childhood.  After  a  time  she  fell  asleep  in  the 
lone  silence  of  that  vestal  darkness. 


BOOK    IV 
THE  PROBLEM   OF  CALIBAN 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  RECONSTRUCTION  POLICY 

Two  years  drifted  slowly  over  the  chaos  of  the  Confed 
erate  states  without  bringing  a  solution  of  the  political 
riddle.  Reconstruction  was  still  under  debate,  the  Con 
stitution  was  suspended,  and  the  South  was  still  policed 
and  controlled  by  the  armed  soldiers  of  the  victors. 

Virginia,  the  eldest,  and  by  tradition  and  achievement 
the  proudest  in  the  sisterhood  of  states,  was  deprived  of 
her  historic  name.  Her  territory  was  designated  as  Mili 
tary  District  No.  1. 

President  Johnson  and  the  factions  in  Congress  had 
been  engaged  in  bitter  quarrels  over  ways  and  means  of 
reconstruction.  The  executive  endeavored  to  carry  out 
the  policy  of  Lincoln  —  a  policy  which  squared  with  the 
ante-bellum  logic  of  the  North,  and  which  maintained  that 
the  Southern  states  were  indestructible  members  of  the 
Union,  and  that,  since  armed  resistance  to  federal  author 
ity  had  ceased,  they  should  therefore  be  permitted  to  re 
sume  the  rights  and  privileges  of  statehood.  But  Johnson's 
vain  and  vehement  personality,  his  lack  of  tact  and  states 
manship,  his  ill-starred  genius  for  doing  the  right  thing 
in  the  wrong  fashion,  defeated  his  cherished  purpose,  and 
threw  the  control  of  power  unto  the  hands  of  Stevens  and 
the  Radicals. 

It  was  most  unfortunate  for  peace  and  reconciliation. 

128 


THE   RECONSTRUCTION   POLICY  129 

For  Stevens  was  a  narrow-minded  partisan.  He  saw  only 
one  side  of  the  case.  Unlike  Lincoln,  who  would  have 
been  a  healing  power,  he  was  governed  by  a  vindictive 
zeal.  He  assumed  that  the  Confederates  were  traitors, 
and  not  honest  men,  and  he  advocated  measures  that  were 
drastic,  virulent,  galling  :  the  denial  of  all  rights  to  the 
conquered,  the  confiscation  of  their  property,  political  dis- 
franchisement,  and  the  control  of  the  state  governments  by 
a  revolutionary  extension  of  the  suffrage  to  all  of  the  freed- 
men.  Stevens  had  no  practical  knowledge  of  Southern 
conditions,  and  he  approached  the  problem  of  reconstruc 
tion  from  the  avenue  of  blind  prejudice.  His  proposals 
were  like  salt  rubbed  into  the  wounds  of  the  defeated. 

However,  under  his  leadership,  in  the  spring  of  1867, 
Congress  passed  the  Acts  of  Reconstruction.  These  laws 
provided  for  constitutional  conventions,  and  the  readmis- 
sion  of  the  states  ;  by  a  readjustment  of  the  franchise 
qualifications  they  arranged  furthermore  for  the  govern 
ment  and  control  of  the  Confederate  commonwealths  by 
the  unnatural  method  of  negro  domination. 

To  a  people  smarting  under  defeat,  naturally  proud, 
supremely  sensitive  to  courtesy  and  insult,  and  to  a  class 
of  men  born  and  bred  amid  aristocratic  conditions,  this 
sudden  subjection  of  the  master  to  the  political  rule  of  his 
former  slave  was  like  throwing  vitriol  in  his  face.  With 
Stevens  and  the  policy  of  negro  domination  begins  the 
problem  of  the  race  war  in  the  South.  And  here,  rather 
than  in  the  conflicts  of  the  field,  is  seen  the  really  provoca 
tive  cause  for  the  long  alienation  of  the  sections. 

The  Reconstruction  laws  aroused  in  every  Southerner 
one  of  two  moods :  either  a  violent  hatred  for  the  con 
querors,  or  else  a  silent,  apathetic  contempt. 

"  Put  the  niggers  over  us,  will  they  ?  "  said  Major  Hil 
ton,  a  neighbor  of  Bourland.  "Well,  they  can  do  it. 
They've  got  us  down,  and  they  can  kick  us  if  they  want 
to,  I  suppose.  But  I  shall  keep  clear  of  their  dirty 
politics."  And  he  went  home,  bolted  his  door,  and 
lived  as  a  secluded  misanthrope.  He  could  avoid  the 
humiliation  and  save  his  dignity  by  ceasing  to  be  a  citizen. 


130  HENRY   BOURLAND 

In  June,  1867,  Virginia  was  still  Military  District  No.  1. 

Though  the  election  of  delegates  to  the  constitutional 
convention  at  Richmond  had  been  fixed  for  October,  there 
was  widespread  apathy  among  the  whites  toward  all  politi 
cal  concerns  while  the  state  was  under  military  control. 
They  looked  upon  Congress  as  a  hive  of  fanatics,  and  they, 
like  Major  Hilton,  refused  to  have  any  dealings  with  such 
a  body  or  with  its  representatives.  So  they  maintained 
the  notoriously  boastful  attitude  of  "glorious  inactivity." 
Some  of  the  wiser  men  were  fearful  of  the  results  of  this 
negligence ;  for  the  times  were  dynamic  with  great  dan 
gers  to  the  future  of  the  state,  and  they  sought  to  arouse 
their  fellows  to  the  sense  of  their  political  duties.  Among 
these  was  Bourland. 

"  Half  a  loaf  is  better  than  no  bread,"  he  would  say  ; 
"we  may  save  something  of  our  rights." 

It  was  a  practical  argument,  but  he  found  it  very  diffi 
cult  to  awaken  his  neighbors  to  the  threatening  evils  of 
negro  domination. 

One  June  afternoon,  Margaret,  while  awaiting  her  hus 
band's  return,  was  out  on  the  lawn  among  her  rose  bushes. 
Those  flowers  were  her  single  luxury,  and  she  cared  for 
them  as  affectionately  as  a  brood  of  children.  June's 
warm  wooing  had  opened  the  buds  in  profusion,  and  the 
air  drank  and  swam  in  the  fragrance  of  Yorks,  Jacques, 
damasks,  dainty  teas,  and  heavy  hundred  leaves,  while  the 
light  irradiated  their  delicate  hues  of  yellow  and  white, 
cream  and  crimson.  The  noon  had  brought  a  shower,  and 
the  sun  had  not  fully  dried  the  grass.  Margaret  shook 
the  raindrops  from  the  petals,  straightened  the  supports 
of  the  wind-blown  branches,  and  drove  out  the  insects 
from  their  too  cosy  nests  of  rosedown.  She  plucked  a 
Gloria  de  Dijon  in  the  prime  and  put  it  in  her  hair.  She 
lifted  to  her  lips  a  ruby  Jacque  that  drooped  gracefully 
on  the  stem.  The  touch  thrilled  her  beautifully;  it  was 
so  like  the  shrinking  touch  of  a  little  baby's  mouth. 

The  clatter  of  hoofs  caused  her  to  walk  over  toward 
the  gate.  Henry  came  galloping  up  the  road. 

"Well,  sweetheart,"  he  called  out,  holding  up  some- 


THE  RECONSTRUCTION   POLICY  131 

thing  that  looked  like  a  bottle.  "I've  got  my  booty. 
Has  Major  Hilton  come  yet?" 

"  Not  yet.     I'm  afraid  you  are  getting  extravagant." 

"  There  isn't  much  of  this  old  Madeira  left  in  Virginia. 
Chadwick  had  to  poke  all  around  his  cellar  for  this  one 
bottle.  I  want  to  warm  up  Major  Hilton.  I  want  to  get 
him  interested  in  this  election." 

"  Oh,  those  dreadful  politics  again !  "  she  exclaimed, 
with  a  gesture  of  jealousy. 

"  It  can't  be  helped.  This  reconstruction  business  has 
got  us  by  the  throat.  God  helps  those  who  help  them 
selves,  you  know." 

"  But  it  takes  you  too  much  away  from  home." 

"  Well,  better  times  are  ahead,  I  hope.  Hark  !  there 
they  come.  Take  this  bottle  into  the  house.  Be  careful 
now,  don't  brush  off  the  cobwebs." 

A  few  moments  later  a  carriage  with  wheels  out  of  the 
plane  was  drawn  by  two  ill-mated  horses  into  the  yard. 
A  negro  without  livery  was  driving,  and  a  middle-aged 
gentleman  and  lady  occupied  the  rear  seat. 

"I'll  have  to  be  my  own  major-domo,"  said  Bourland, 
greeting  the  visitors. 

The  guest  apologized  for  the  delay  of  his  visit.  "  In 
these  times,"  he  said,  "  there  is  such  a  temptation  to  keep 
shut  up." 

The  dinner  was  a  very  simple  affair;  the  only  thing 
reminiscent  of  the  old  days  was  that  solitary  bottle  of  wine. 

The  conversation  drifted  from  local  gossip  to  family 
affairs,  deceased  neighbors,  newcomers,  many  of  them 
from  the  North,  who  had  moved  into  the  country,  and 
occupied  the  vacant  farms  or  taken  up  the  professions. 
Finally  the  talk  turned  upon  the  all-absorbing  topic,  — 
the  future  of  the  negro. 

"  The  emancipation,  in  some  ways,  is  a  great  relief," 
said  Bourland.  "  It  relieves  us  from  a  thousand  cares. 
The  slaves  were  a  constant  worry ;  every  little  thing,  a 
burn,  a  fever,  a  broil  among  them,  had  to  be  looked  after. 
Now  they  can  shift  for  themselves ;  they  are  free,  and  so 


132  HENRY  BOURLAND 

"  But,  drat  the  rogues,"  said  the  major,  "you  can't  make 
them  work.  You  can't  get  half  as  much  out  of  them  as  in 
the  days  when  the  lazy  ones  had  fear  of  the  whip.  They 
are  as  saucy  as  parrots.  The  minute  you  say  a  word  to 
them,  they  talk  about  their  rights  and  rush  off  to  the 
Freedman's  Bureau." 

"  I've  had  a  good  deal  of  trouble  with  them,  particularly 
the  young  ones.  They  are  a  restless  lot.  They  want  to 
clear  off  to  the  towns  and  hang  around  the  soldiers' 
quarters,  doing  nothing.  You  have  to  be  stern  with  them. 
But  I've  got  most  of  mine  under  discipline  now.  The 
nigger  that  won't  work  around  here  gets  his  walking 
orders  very  quickly." 

"  When  I  was  down  in  Lynchburg  last  fall,"  continued 
the  major,  "  I  saw  hundreds  of  them,  just  loafing  about. 
Outside  the  town  they  had  put  up  some  shanties  of  loose 
logs  and  tree  boughs ;  there  they  slept  at  night,  and  dur 
ing  the  day  they  hung  about  the  streets,  living  on  the 
rations  of  the  government.  It  is  worse  at  Richmond, 
I'm  told.  It  is  very  curious  to  see  how  they  are  drift 
ing  to  the  towns  and  cities." 

"  They've  got  their  heads  full  of  foolish  notions.  They 
still  think  that  the  government  is  going  to  confiscate  our 
lands  and  give  each  of  them  a  farm.  So  they  won't  make 
contracts.  They  want  to  be  ready  for  the  scramble.  I've 
heard  them  say  that  they  c  'spected  to  be  made  gemmen  jes' 
laik  de  quality  people,'  and  that  4dey  wusn't  'spectin'  to 
do  no  moah  wo'k,' "  said  Bourland,  imitating,  by  his  voice 
and  expression,  the  impudence  of  the  impudent  negro. 

"  Oh  !  they  are  a  harmless  lot,  Colonel,"  replied  the 
major.  "  An  inferior  race  always  is.  They  can't  stand 
competition  with  the  white  man.  This  talk  about  equality 
is  all  Yankee  ignorance  and  nonsense.  The  niggers  will 
gradually  become  extinct  like  the  Indians.  White  labor 
will  come  down  here,  and  drive  them  into  the  Cotton  states, 
and  finally  into  the  Gulf  of  Mexico.  Let  the  Yankees  make 
a  mess  of  this  equality  business  if  they  want  to." 

"  No,  I  don't  agree  with  you.  The  niggers  are  not 
harmless.  They've  got  danger  in  them,  and  they  are  a 


THE   RECONSTRUCTION   POLICY  133 

menace  to  our  safety.  We  white  men  have  a  greater  duty 
to  perform  for  the  state  then  ever  before.  Years  ago  I 
laid  to  heart  Patrick  Henry's  maxim,  '  Eternal  vigilance  is 
the  price  of  liberty.'  We  must  practise  it.  This  is  a  time 
when  every  white  man  should  stand  by  his  neighbors  for 
concerted  action.  We  are  more  fortunate  in  Virginia  than 
farther  south.  The  negroes  do  not  outnumber  us,  and  we 
have  a  chance  to  keep  control  of  affairs." 

"  Well,  I  don't  propose  to  have  anything  to  do  with  this 
Yankee  reconstruction  and  nigger  politics.  I'd  rather  go 
under  than  soil  my  hands  with  it.  Let  the  Yankees  do 
their  worst.  Time  will  tell  who  knows  most  about  nig 
gers  :  they,  or  we  who  have  lived  with  them  all  our  lives." 

Bourland  made  no  answer  to  this.  He  did  not  wish  to 
arouse  the  major's  feelings,  and  drive  him  to  his  mettle 
in  the  presence  of  the  others.  But  he  thought  he  could 
reach  him  privately  by  an  appeal. 

After  dinner  the  ladies  withdrew  and  left  the  men  to 
their  cigars. 

"  Well,"  said  the  guest,  sipping  his  wine-glass,  "this  is 
a  relic  of  the  old  days,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  Bourland,  "  and  do  you  think,  Major, 
that  it  is  all  which  is  left  to  us  ?  Do  you  think  the  old 
times  are  gone  beyond  recall  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  answered.  "  For  my  part,  I'm  dis 
couraged  ;  played  out.  I  can't  make  things  go.  A  hun 
dred  times  during  the  last  year  I  have  been  glad  to  think 
I  have  no  children." 

"  I  hate  to  admit,"  returned  Bourland,  dejectedly,  "  that 
we  have  lost  our  prestige ;  that  we  have  actually  gone 
under ;  that  there  isn't  enough  pluck  left  in  me  to  restore 
things  to  something  like  former  times.  I've  worked 
hard." 

"  Yes,  Colonel,  you  have,  and  as  the  Scottish  king  said, 
you  '  have  bought  golden  opinions '  from  all  of  us  in  the 
neighborhood.  We  look  up  to  you  as  our  leader  now. 
But  personally  I  don't  care  what  happens.  All  my  ambi 
tion  has  gone.  I  reckon  I'm  like  most  of  the  rest ;  I've 
run  to  seed." 


134  HENRY   BOURLAND 

"  You  are  a  friend  of  mine,  aren't  you,  Major  ?  " 

"You  needn't  ask  that." 

"  If  you  could  help  me,  you'd  do  it,  wouldn't  you  ?  " 

"You  have  only  to  command  me." 

"  I  want  you,  for  my  sake,  to  come  out  of  this  lethargy, 
to  become  an  influence  —  a  political  force  in  the  affairs  of 
the  state.  Here  we  are  facing  an  election,  and  on  it  will 
depend  the  character  of  the  constitution  which  shall  rule 
us  and  our  children.  We  must  have  conservatives  make 
that  constitution.  In  Virginia,  if  the  white  men  all  stand 
together,  we  can  still  control  our  own  commonwealth. 
But  the  greatest  enemy  we  have  is  men  like  you  :  these 
apathetic  ones,  who  don't  care.  My  interests  are  at  stake 
as  well  as  yours  ;  but  without  your  help,  I  am  helpless. 
These  Radicals  and  niggers  will  swallow  me  up  as  well  as 
you.  I  want  a  chance  to  fight  —  a  chance  to  win  back 
my  own  inheritance  and  birthright.  But  I  can't  do  it 
without  my  neighbor's  help." 

While  Bourland  spoke  the  older  man  was  moving  un 
easily  in  his  chair.  He  realized  that  he  was  wrong.  He 
squirmed  under  the  conviction  of  selfishness. 

"  I  never  thought  of  the  matter  in  that  light,  Bourland. 
For  myself,  as  I  said,  I  don't  care  a  whip.  I've  sworn 
that  I'd  let  the  Yankees  do  what  they  pleased,  and  that 
I'd  let  them  make  a  mess  of  the  whole  business ;  I 
wouldn't  raise  a  hand.  But  the  old  blood  still  seems  to 
be  in  your  veins,  and  you  aren't  beaten  down  yet.  God 
bless  you.  I'm  wrong,  and  unmanly,  and  selfish.  Go 
ahead.  I'll  stand  by  you."  He  held  out  his  hand,  with 
a  sudden  burst  of  emotion  that  expressed  itself  in  an 
intense  grip. 

"If  we  want  to  save  the  state,  Major,  we  have  got  to 
work  like  Anglo-Saxons,  and,"  he  added,  "endure  like 
Jews." 

The  major  was  silent,  gathering  his  spent  energy  into 
a  resolution. 

"  The  last  time  I  saw  General  Lee,"  continued  Bour 
land,  "  just  after  the  Appomattox  surrender,  he  gave  me 
this  as  a  parting  charge :  '  Stand  by  the  state.  She  will 


THE   RECONSTRUCTION   POLICY  135 

need  every  man  of  you.  Don't  desert  her  in  the  hour  of 
her  greatest  distress.  You  have  been  a  good  soldier  for 
her  sake  ;  now  be  a  good  citizen. ' ' 

"  I  will,  by  God,  I  will,"  said  the  major  with  a  sincerity 
that  flushed  his  face  and  made  the  oath  a  reverent  vow 
of  consecration. 

Bourland  dripped  the  last  of  the  wine  into  the  glasses. 

"  To  a  white  man's  government  for  Virginia,"  said  he, 
rising. 

"  Heaven  grant  it  for  her  name's  sake,"  replied  the 
guest,  raising  the  glass  with  a  tremulous  hand. 


CHAPTER   XVII 

THE   COMING  OF   PARKER,  THE   CARPET-BAGGER 

ONE  afternoon,  several  days  later,  Bourland  was  return 
ing  dejectedly  from  Bray  ton. 

He  had  gone  down  to  interview  some  of  the  influential 
citizens,  who  were  reposing  in  "  glorious  inactivity,"  while 
the  Radicals  —  the  carpet-baggers,  adventurers  from  the 
North  ;  the  scalawags,  place  hunters  of  the  South  ;  and 
certain  well-meaning  philanthropists  —  were  laying  plans, 
in  accordance  with  the  congressional  scheme,  to  capture 
the  state  government. 

It  was  very  difficult  to  arouse  his  neighbors  to  a  sense 
of  their  duty  and  their  peril.  Bourland  could  not  appeal 
to  many  of  them,  as  he  had  done  to  Major  Hilton,  on  the 
ground  of  personal  friendship  ;  he  had  to  resort  to  argu 
ment.  But  argument  seldom  accomplishes  much  a.gainst 
prejudices.  A  great  many  men,  indeed,  were  in  no  mood 
to  hear  reason.  One  man  declared  that  he  had  withdrawn 
from  active  life,  and  that  he  didn't  care  a  "  leather  "  what 
happened.  Another  said  that  he  had  lost  his  country, 
and  that  he  wouldn't  take  the  oath  of  allegiance  to  an 
other  ;  he  never  thought  much  of  "stepmothers."  A 
third  saw  no  prospect  of  success  for  the  Conservatives  ; 
he  wouldn't  even  vote  at  the  election  ;  he  couldn't  do  it 
without  a  loss  of  dignity  and  without  coming  down  to  the 
"  level  of  niggers." 

Many  trivial  incidents,  long  ago  forgotten,  gave  cause 
for  indignant  exasperation,  and  furnished  excuses  for  this 
sulky  lethargy.  The  Confederates,  though  defeated, 
demanded  the  courtesy  due  to  American  gentlemen. 
They  felt  that  they  had  been  treated  like  bandits  and 

136 


THE  CAKPET-BAGGEB,  137 

branded  as  traitors.  The  closing  of  churches,  the  sup 
pression  of  newspapers,  the  presence  of  "  military  satraps  " 
in  every  town,  the  police  system  of  alien  soldiers  and 
negro  militia,  —  all  these  things,  inevitable  perhaps, 
clashed  with  their  American  ideas  of  personal  liberty 
and  stirred  their  bile. 

But  far  more  irritating  than  these  incidents  of  military 
occupation  were  the  Northern  political  prospectors  who 
came  streaming  into  the  South,  hurling  abuse  at  the  whites, 
shouting  incendiary  speeches,  and  arousing  among  the 
blacks  a  bitter  animosity  for  their  former  masters. 

The  cities  and  towns  were  swarming  with  idle  and 
arrogant  negroes  who  were  a  menace  to  public  order. 
Riots  were  frequent.  It  was  unsafe  to  be  on  the  streets. 

"  Let  the  Yankees  finish  up  their  dirty  work  ;  we  won't 
try  to  stop  them,"  was  the  last  word  of  the  sullen  and 
the  apathetic,  as  they  went  into  their  houses  and  shut  the 
doors. 

This  afternoon  Bourland  rode  home  limp  in  spirit  and 
in  backbone.  He  was  almost  ready  to  turn  away  alto 
gether  from  his  civic  duties.  He  sought  only  for  a  final 
justification. 

At  the  crossroads  he  encountered  a  vagrant  family  of 
"  poor  whites,"  —  a  woman  dressed  in  dirty  rags,  carrying 
a  baby,  and  two  boys  dragging  a  cart  full  of  junk  and 
household  furniture. 

They  said,  in  answer  to  his  inquiry,  that  they  had  come 
all  the  way  from  Georgia,  begging  their  food. 

"Is  your  husband  dead  ?  "  said  Bourland  to  the  woman. 

Her  face  was  as  dry  and  crumpled  as  an  autumn  leaf. 
Her  eyes  were  dog  tired. 

"  More'n  three  yeahs,"  she  answered  without  the  slight 
est  feeling.  "  Sherman's  raiders  shot  him  and  set  fire  to 
our  house.  The  Ian'  wouldn't  grow  nothin',  an'  we  was 
livin'  on  roots.  I'm  a-totein'  the  children  up  tuh  Louis 
ville,  where  I've  got  a  sister.  I've  hearn  you  kin  git 
work  there." 

Five  minutes  before  he  had  been  in  an  irascible  humor. 
He  had  been  working  for  two  years,  and  had  little  to  show 


138  HENRY   BOURLAND 

for  the  effort ;  by  the  most  rigid  economy  he  had  just  met 
his  obligations.  The  mortgages  were  still  held  against  the 
estate,  with  two  years  less  to  run.  The  prospect  ahead 
was  lowering.  The  years  which  followed  the  war  had 
been  prosperous  for  some  men  ;  the  prices  of  staples  had 
been  high,  and  there  had  been  a  great  deal  of  speculation. 
But  he  had  not  improved  his  own  circumstances  a  whit. 
He  feared  the  future,  if  the  Radicals  got  control  of  the 
government.  For  there  was  a  nefarious  purpose  among 
them  to  raise  the  tax  rate,  assess  the  estates  of  the  old 
families  at  high  figures,  and,  if  the  surviving  planters 
could  not  pay  their  taxes,  to  sell  them  out  by  the  sheriff. 
So,  when  Bourland  found  that  so  many  of  his  neighbors 
were  content  to  let  the  Radicals  take  charge  of  the  gov 
ernment,  and  refused  to  oppose  them,  he  saw  that  his  en 
deavors  to  recover  his  position  and  prestige  would  be  futile. 

But  the  sight  of  these  homeless  Georgia  "  crackers " 
brought  home  to  him  the  far  worse  plight  of  others  in 
his  own  land.  And  there  were  thousands  and  thousands 
just  like  them.  The  melancholy  of  his  thoughts  was 
replaced  by  a  mood  of  Roman  stoicism.  He  felt  anew  the 
responsibilities  of  his  birth  and  leadership. 

He  rode  past  a  field  where  some  of  his  negroes  were 
harvesting  wheat.  Old  Azariah,  who,  in  spite  of  his  age, 
still  retained  his  authority  as  overseer,  came  to  the  fence. 

"  Aze,"  said  Bourland,  "  what  kind  of  fellows  are  those 
niggers  we  took  on  last  week  ?  " 

"Dey's  jes'  Alabama  trash,"  he  replied  with  a  con 
temptuous  emphasis  on  the  epithet.  "  Dey  ain't  wuth  a 
mess  o'  pehsimmons.  I'se  not  suah  dat  it's  a  good  dispen- 
sashun  foh  to  put  sech  low  count  stuff  to  wo'k  amongs'  de 
Varginia  qualities.  Dey '11  meek  us  trouble." 

"  Keep  them  at  work,  and  don't  let  them  talk  too 
much." 

"  Lawd,  marster,  dey  sasses  me  right  back  into  my  teef . 
Dey  sez  es  dey  wuz  free  men  now,  an'  dey  specks  dey'll 
wo'k  ez  dey  pleases  —  dey  didn'  cackerlate  to  stay  'roun 
heah  long  nohow;  dey's  a  trabbling  tow'ds  de  norf.  I 
wishes  dey'd  move,  foh  dey  destroys  my  dis'pline." 


THE   CARPET-BAGGER  139 

"  If  they  don't  obey  you,  send  them  to  me.  I'll  settle 
their  nonsense,"  said  Bourland,  as  he  rode  off. 

He  was  busied  some  time  examining  a  fallow  field  which 
he  desired  either  to  rent  or  put  into  cultivation.  As  he 
returned,  he  saw  from  the  covert  of  a  clump  of  bushes  a 
stranger  riding  up  the  road.  The  man  got  down  from  his 
horse,  tied  it  to  a  fence  post,  and  then  called  to  the  negroes 
in  the  field. 

Bourland  recognized  the  type  of  man ;  it  was  the  first 
carpet-bagger  to  invade  his  estate.  He  was  curious  to  see 
what  the  man  was  about,  so  he  remained  hidden. 

The  stranger  had  the  nasal  speech  of  New  England. 
He  took  off  his  slouch  hat,  and  wiped  the  perspiration 
from  his  forehead,  and  then  leaned  down  on  the  fence  rail. 
His  head  was  covered  with  thick,  oily,  brown  hair,  and  his 
beard  was  of  a  reddish  color,  bristly,  like  a  seasoned  chest 
nut  burr.  A  wen,  about  the  size  of  a  Catawba  grape,  pro 
jected  above  his  right  eye.  He  was  dressed  in  a  suit  of  black 
broadcloth,  loosely  hanging  about  his  ramshackle  figure. 
He  wore  a  narrow,  black  silk  tie,  and  suit  and  tie  would 
have  suggested  the  well-to-do  church  vestryman  but  for  a 
large  penny-shaped  bloodstone  stud  which  glaringly  shone 
on  his  shirt  bosom.  On  the  whole,  his  general  appearance 
was  very  decent. 

Bourland  could  catch  most  of  his  words. 

"  Gentlemen,"  he  said  to  the  negroes,  who,  at  his  call, 
drew  near  the  fence,  "  whose  place  is  this  ?  " 

"  Marse  Bourland's,  sah,"  replied  one,  who  continued  to 
be  the  spokesman,  while  the  others  stared  and  listened. 

"  He  was  a  rebel  general,  wasn't  he  ?  " 

"  Only  a  kurnel,  dey  calls  'im." 

"Well,  he  was  a  rebel;  that's  bad  enough.  Does  he 
own  all  this  land?  " 

"  Ya-as,  sah;  f'um  de  Hall  down  to  de  run,  an'  ovah 
beyant  dose  pine  woods." 

"  That's  a  heap  of  land  for  one  man  to  own.     Hm !  " 

"  Ya-as,  sah  ;  a  heap  o'  Ian'." 

"Are  you  his  men?  I  mean,  do  you  work  for  him.  Of 
course  you  aren't  his  men.  You  are  your  own  men." 


140  HENRY   BOURLAND 

"Ya-as,  sah;  we  works  fob  'im,  suah." 

"  I'm  a  stranger  in  these  parts.  I'm  rather  curious  to 
know  what  wages  he  pays  you." 

"  Ten  dollars  a  month  an'  rashuns,  sah.  Be  you  f ' om  de 
No'th,  massa  ?  " 

"  Yes,  boys,  I  am  from  the  North.  I'm  an  old  soldier ; 
one  of  those  who  fought  to  free  you.  Up  north  we  pay 
men  like  you  twice  as  much  money  for  no  more  work.  It's 
a  shame  you  are  cheated  so." 

"  Da's  all  we  gits ;  we  kyarn'  git  no  moah." 

"  Wouldn't  you  like  to  get  more  ?  " 

"  Reckon  we  would,  massa ;  but  Marse  Bourlan',  he  very 
strick  man ;  he  say  he  kyarn'  giv  us  no  moah." 

"  Nonsense.  He  wants  to  get  rich  out  of  you.  What 
right  has  he  got  to  this  land?  You  and  your  fathers 
worked  it  and  made  it  valuable.  It  ought  to  be  yours. 
I  don't  think  you  nig — ,  you  gentlemen  are  getting  your 
rights.  You  ain't  never  been  north,  have  you?  " 

They  nodded  a  group  of  negatives. 

"  Well,  boys,  I'll  tell  you  what  the  fact  is :  I'm  your 
friend.  Your  best  friend,  and  I  come  down  here  to  help 
you  get  your  rights.  I've  got  lots  of  influence,  big  men, 
back  of  me  up  in  Washington.  And  some  of  them  said  to 
me,  4  You  go  down  in  Virginia,  and  tell  those  poor  souls 
down  there  about  their  rights.  They  are  just  as  good  as 
any  men  on  God's  earth  ! '  I  had  some  business  on  hand, 
but  it  seemed  to  me  like  a  call  to  duty,  and  so  I  came  down 
here.  And  I'm  going  to  give  up  my  business,  and  stay 
with  you  till  you  get  your  rights.  I  tell  you,  I've  some 
influential  friends  in  Washington." 

The  man  stuck  his  thumbs  in  his  vest,  and  stood  back  in 
a  senatorial  attitude.  The  eyes  of  the  negroes  widened 
with  wonder  and  awe. 

"  Up  north  we  treat  you  folks  just  like  white  men,"  he 
went  on.  "  Why,  I've  often  seen  colored  ladies  on  the 
streets  dressed  in  as  fine  silks  as  senators'  wives  wear. 
You  don't  see  that  down  here,  do  you  ?  " 

"  I  ain't  nevah  seen  no  niggah  gal  in  sich  cloes  in  all  my 
bawn.  days,  massa." 


THE   CAKPET-BAGGER  141 

"  Why  don't  you?"  cried  the  man,  with  a  sour  excite 
ment.  "  It's  because  these  aristocrats  have  the  silks  and 
the  fine  horses  and  the  wines.  Yet  you  do  all  the  work. 
Did  you  ever  see  any  one  of  them  work  ?  " 

"  We  does  the  work,  massa,  suah." 

"  Well,  we  are  going  to  change  that.  We  are  going  to 
give  you  folks  a  chance.  You've  been  trampled  on  long 
enough,  and  some  of  us  have  made  up  our  minds  that  we 
are  going  to  put  a  stop  to  it.  I'm  one  of  them,  too." 

He  wiped  his  forehead  again. 

"This  persecution  has  got  to  come  to  an  end.  It's  a 
shame.  It  brings  the  tears  to  my  eyes  when  I  see  how  a 
kind-hearted,  affectionate  race  like  yours  have  been  made 
for  generations  the  hewers  of  wood  and  the  drawers  of 
water.  But  you've  got  a  friend  in  me." 

They  listened,  dumbly,  mild-eyed,  like  cattle. 

"  You  never  voted  yet,  did  you?  "  the  stranger  pursued. 
None  of  them  ever  had. 

"  We  are  going  to  give  you  a  chance  before  long.  You 
are  all  citizens  now  with  full  rights  to  the  ballot ;  you  can 
make  laws  just  like  white  men.  Now  what  are  you  going 
to  do  about  voting  ?  " 

No  one  of  them  knew  what  he  should  do. 

"  Well,  boys,  that's  what  I'm  here  for  :  to  show  you  how 
to  vote  and  get  your  rights.  I'm  sent  down  by  the  Na 
tional  Political  Aid  Society.  We  propose  to  form  a  party 
and  run  the  state,  make  the  laws  and  put  you  into  the 
offices.  Then  you  can  make  the  white  men  stand  around, 
I  tell  you.  And  every  one  of  you  can  get  a  house  for 
himself,  and  a  patch  of  land,  and  can  smoke  his  pipe  like 
a  gentleman.  You  won't  have  to  work  except  when  you 
want  to." 

It  was  a  Mahometan  paradise  to  their  empty  imagi 
nations. 

"See  here,  boys,  look  at  this."  He  took  a  few  twigs, 
and  tried  to  break  them  all  together,  but  he  couldn't. 
fcw  You  see  when  there  are  a  lot  of  them,  you  can't  break 
any."  He  next  took  them  separately  and  broke  them  in 
two.  "  But  all  alone,  you  can  break  them  easily.  That's 


142  HENEY   BOURLAND 

an  object  lesson  for  you.  It  shows  you  how  to  be  a  poli 
tician,  and  get  power.  United,  we  stand ;  divided,  we 
fall.  You  must  all  back  me  up,  and  help  me,  and  I'll 
lead  you  on  to  victory.  Come  nearer." 

They  all  approached  the  fence. 

"I  want  to  enroll  your  names  on  the  books  of  our 
society.  It  will  cost  you  only  ten  cents  to  join,  and  you 
can  have  full  privileges  for  that  small  amount.  You 
can  pay  sometime  when  you  come  to  our  meeting  in 
Bray  ton." 

Each  one  gave  his  name,  and,  if  he  could,  his  age.  The 
stranger  put  them  down  in  his  book. 

"  We  shall  have  a  meeting  at  Brayton  next  Wednesday 
night.  You  must  all  come  to  it.  There  you  will  get 
full  instructions  how  to  vote  and  get  your  rights.  Don't 
be  afraid.  The  soldiers  will  be  there  to  protect  you. 
If  anything  goes  wrong,  you  just  ask  for  Bill  Parker.  I'm 
your  friend,  remember,  and  I'll  see  you  get  justice." 

Just  then  there  was  a  rustling  in  the  bushes,  and 
Bourland  suddenly  appeared.  At  the  sight  of  him  the 
negroes  looked  terrified. 

"  There,  you  niggers,  you  get  back  to  your  work,"  he 
shouted  wrathfully.  They  scampered  off,  without  look 
ing  behind  them,  like  scared  sheep. 

The  stranger  was  disconcerted  at  first,  but  with  egre 
gious  nerve  he  came  forward,  holding  out  his  hand,  and 
saying  with  great  cordiality  ;  — 

"  I  believe  I  have  the  honor  of  addressing  that  brave 
soldier,  that  worthy  foeman,  Colonel  Bourland." 

Bourland  drew  himself  up  haughtily,  and  folded  his 
arms  before  the  proffered  hand. 

"  You  have  the  advantage  of  me,"  he  said,  still  under 
the  spell  of  his  anger. 

"Parker,  William  Parker,"  the  other  replied  affably, 
and  seeming  not  to  notice  the  snub  of  the  folded  arms. 
uMy  name  is  not  so  historic  as  yours,  I  regret  to  say. 
Yours  is  a  distinguished  family,  sir ;  noted  in  the  annals 
of  Virginia." 

"  Well,  Mr.  Parker,  if  that  is  your  name,  just  get  out 


THE   CARPET-BAGGER  143 

of  here  as  quickly  as  you  can.  You  are  a  trespasser  on 
my  estate,  sir." 

The  other  calmly  maintained  his  position. 

"  I  believe  I  am  standing  in  the  public  highway,"  he 
said.  "  I  do  not  think  I  have  been  acting  contrary  to  any 
law.  This  is  a  free  country,  and  every  man  has  a  right 
to  free  speech." 

"  Who  gave  you  the  right  to  enter  a  man's  property 
and  incite  his  servants  to  insubordination  ?  "  he  asked 
hotly. 

"  Oh  !  "  replied  the  other,  with  an  amused  grin,  "  don't 
call  it  insubordination.  We  are  teaching  them  how  to 
enjoy  the  rights  and  privileges  of  white  men.  They  are 
entitled  to,  by  the  law.  Besides,  I  am  acting  under 
orders  from  the  Freedman's  Bureau,  which,  I  believe,  has 
full  authority  round  here." 

Bourland,  catching  his  anger,  realized  that  he  had  no 
legal  ground  for  complaint  under  the  new  regime.  He 
was  forced  to  silence.  They  could  teach  his  negroes 
whatever  they  desired.  He  turned  about,  biting  in  his 
vexed  lips,  and  walked  away. 

"  Remember  the  name,  Parker,  Captain  Parker  of 
the  17th  Massachusetts,  U.S.A.,"  the  man  called  out 
derisively. 

Bourland  did  not  turn  again.  If  he  had  done  so,  he 
would  have  seen  the  man's  face  expanding  with  vulgar, 
saturnine  triumph. 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

THE   BEGINNING    OF   THE   LEVELLING   PROCESS 

AFTER  the  slaves  were  set  free,  there  was  no  adequate 
reason  for  any  alienation  of  the  white  and  black  races. 
During  the  war  the  slaves  worked  faithfully  on  the  plan 
tations  of  their  masters,  and  most  of  them  attested  their 
good  will  and  loyalty  by  devoted  service  during  the  dark 
est  days  of  storrn  and  stress. 

But  the  scheme  of  reconstruction,  which  designed  to  con 
trol  the  revolted  states  by  the  limited  disfranchisement 
of  Confederates  and  the  wholesale  extension  of  suffrage  to 
the  freedmen,  required  implicitly,  although  not  avowedly, 
a  change  in  this  cordial  relation.  It  was  necessary,  for 
political  purposes,  to  align  the  blacks  in  opposition  to  the 
whites,  to  make  the  emancipated  slaves  believe  that  their 
former  masters  were  their  natural  enemies.  And  this 
alienation,  in  the  course  of  events,  was  accomplished  by 
carpet-baggers  and  scalawags. 

These  agitators  were  assisted  by  the  enactment  of  the 
so-called  Black  Laws,  —  some  ill-timed  legislation  by  the 
provisional  state  governments,  —  measures  drafted  as  a 
protection  against  the  numerous  vagrant  and  lawless 
negroes,  who,  abusing  their  new  freedom,  degenerated 
into  thieves  and  disturbers  of  the  peace.  In  general, 
they  involved  imprisonment  or  enforced  apprenticeship 
for  the  idle  and  vicious. 

In  the  North  there  was  a  great  hue  and  clamor  against 
this  legislation. 

"The  rebels  are  going  to  reenslave  the  negroes,"  the 
politicians  shouted  ;  and  the  Black  Laws  became  oppor 
tune  texts  for  the  demagogues,  who  with  some  show  of 
reason  aroused  in  the  freedmen  u  fear  of  a  return  to  bond- 

144 


THE  LEVELLING  PKOCESS  145 

age.  In  addition  to  this  argument,  they  harangued 
their  ignorant  auditors  about  social  equality,  their  own 
unselfish  motives,  the  turpitude  of  the  traitors,  and  they 
filled  the  imaginations  of  the  negroes  with  false,  delusive 
hopes. 

The  agitators,  however,  were  not  all  rascals,  nor  even 
all  selfish  place  hunters.  There  was  a  large  body  of  de 
voted,  sentimental  theorists,  who,  urged  by  conscience  and 
philanthropy,  yet  ignorant  of  the  social  conditions,  came 
into  the  South  with  commendable  missionary  zeal.  They 
gave  respectability  to  the  demagogues,  for  they  worked 
with  them  for  the  same  end,  although  with  better  incen 
tives.  The  professed  aim  of  both  classes  was  the  educa 
tion  of  the  negro  to  his  new  rights  and  privileges. 

Within  two  weeks  after  Parker's  visit,  Bourland  saw 
the  result  of  his  influence.  The  blacks  began  to  grow 
restless,  to  grumble  in  an  unwonted  manner,  to  become 
impudent,  and  to  show  signs  of  insubordination.  At 
night  they  went  down  to  Brayton,  attended  the  political 
meetings,  held  ostensibly  by  the  promoters  to  instruct 
the  negroes;  but  they  came  back  quarrelsome,  frequently 
intoxicated,  and  in  no  condition  for  work  the  next  day. 

He  prepared  for  trouble,  vowing  inwardly  that  he 
would  be  the  master,  as  his  father  had  been  before  him, 
on  his  own  estate. 

Trouble  came  one  day,  with  a  humiliating  conclusion. 

One  morning  he  ordered  one  of  his  men  to  wash  the 
carriage.  Later  he  found  that  the  work  had  been  done 
in  a  very  slovenly  manner.  He  called  to  the  man,  who 
appeared,  sulkily  leading  a  horse  to  the  water  trough. 

"Sam,"  said  Bourland,  "I  told  you  to  wash  that 
carriage." 

"  I  did  wash  it ;  yuh  kin  see  ef  yuh  look,"  the  fellow 
replied,  with  that  maddening  insolence  since  become  the 
privilege  of  the  negro. 

Bourland's  irritation  had  been  growing  for  a  week. 
Such  talk  was  new  to  him.  He  focussed  his  eyes  on  the 
man,  and  said  sternly,  "  You  go  wash  that  carriage,  I  tell 
you,  and  make  it  shine  so  that  you  can  see  your  face  in  it." 


146  HENRY    BOURLAND 

The  negro  went  off  muttering  in  negro  fashion.  When 
he  got  around  the  corner  of  the  barn,  to  vent  his  ill- 
humor,  he  raised  his  fist,  and  struck  the  horse  a  vicious 
blow  between  the  eyes.  The  dumb  brute  uttered  a 
whinny  of  pain  and  reared,  quivering  with  fear. 

Bourland  saw  the  act,  and  in  an  instant,  seizing  a  whip, 
he  rushed  after  the  fellow  and  lashed  him  over  the  back 
till  he  fled  into  the  stable. 

"  You  dirty  nigger,  you,"  he  shouted,  his  fury  boiling 
over. 

The  man,  to  escape  the  blows,  dropped  on  all  fours  and 
crept  under  a  manger.  His  tongue  hung  out  of  his 
cavernous  jaws. 

"  Let  up,  massa,  let  up,  Fse  a  bad  nigger,"  he  bawled 
out  with  uncontrollable  gulpings. 

"  Come  out  of  there,"  ordered  Bourland.  "  Stand 
up." 

He  shook  the  butt  of  the  whip  in  his  blinking  eyes. 

"  If  I  ever  catch  you  treating  a  horse  of  mine  like  that 
again,  I'll  tie  you  up,  with  a  rope  around  your  neck,  and 
whip  you  till  you  drop.  Do  you  hear  ?  Go  wash  that 
carriage  properly." 

The  negro  obeyed,  fairly  jumping  in  his  effort  to  get 
away.  He  muttered  all  the  rest  of  the  morning  to 
himself. 

The  next  day  a  soldier  rode  in  through  the  gateway 
and  inquired  for  Colonel  Bourland. 

"  I  am  he,  sir,"  said  Bourland.  "  To  what  do  I  owe  the 
honor  of  your  visit  ?  " 

4- 1  have  a  summons,  sir,"  replied  the  soldier,  touching 
his  cap. 

"  A  summons  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,  a  summons  to  appear  before  the  Freedman's 
Bureau  to  answer  a  charge  of  beating  a  negro."  He 
delivered  the  paper  and  galloped  off. 

Bourland,  after  reading  it,  crumpled  up  the  paper  and 
threw  it  disdainfully  away.  If  the  Bureau  desired  to  see 
him,  they  could  come  up  after  him.  He  didn't  intend 
to  pay  any  heed  to  such  interference  with  his  domestic 


THE   LEVELLING  PROCESS  147 

affairs.  He  had  simply  given  one  of  his  men  a  well-de 
served  punishment.  What  right  had  the  Bureau  to  meddle 
with  the  matter  ?  Bah !  he  wouldn't  pay  any  attention  to  it. 

While  he  sat  there,  pestered  by  this  incident,  his  first 
clash  with  federal  or  semi-official  authorities,  light  foot 
steps  slipped  up  behind  him,  and  before  he  knew  his  sight 
was  blotted  by  two  hands,  once  soft  as  a  damask  rose  — 
now  roughened,  like  a  sear  leaf,  by  domestic  drudgeries. 

"  Guess  who  it  is  !  "  the  voice  called  out. 

"  Cinderella,"  he  replied,  without  struggling  to  escape 
from  the  sweet  blindfolding. 

"  You  nasty  man,"  she  retorted,  uncovering  his  vision, 
and  visiting  his  cheek  with  a  blow  which  affection  curbed 
into  a  love  tap. 

She  bent  his  chair  backward,  holding  him  suspended, 
while  she  leaned  over  in  the  posture  of  a  shepherd's  crook 
and  looked  up  into  his  eyes.  Her  pouting  lips  almost 
grazed  his  own,  and  the  air  space  between  was  charged 
with  the  electric  sparks  of  a  kiss. 

"  You  are  in  trouble,"  she  said,  with  a  sympathy  that 
would  repay  almost  any  anxiety. 

He  told  her  all  about  it. 

"  Oh,  they  won't  do  anything,"  she  said.  "  Just  go  and 
explain  it.  What  could  they  do,  anyway  ?  Put  you  in 
the  chain  gang  ?  " 

"  I  made  up  my  mind  not  to  go,"  he  answered.  "  But 
they  are  your  people,  and  for  your  sake  I'll  pocket  my 
pride  and  go." 

"  I  wish  I  could  get  you  to  say  '  our  people,' "  she  mur 
mured.  "  But  I  can't  blame  you.  It  isn't  the  people  up 
north,  dear,  it's  the  politicians.  Don't  go  if  you  don't 
wish  to." 

But  he  did  ;  that  very  afternoon  he  rode  down  to  the 
Bureau.  It  was  in  a  deserted  corner  grocery.  The  agent 
sat  behind  a  desk,  and  was  listening,  as  Bourland  entered, 
to  the  complaint  of  a  farmer. 

"  Provo,"  the  man  was  saying,  "  I  engaged  two  niggers 
to  work  for  me  under  contract,  but  half  the  time  they  go 
off  and  loaf  in  the  woods.  I  can't  make  them  work. 


148  HENRY   BOURLAND 

They  live  in  my  cabins,  and  eat  my  vittles,  and  won't  do 
anything.  I  want  to  send  them  off  my  place  altogether." 

The  agent,  with  a  pen  thrust  behind  his  ear,  looked 
important  as  he  answered  curtly  :  — 

"  You  can't  send  them  away.  They  have  helped  plant 
the  crops,  and  you've  got  to  keep  them." 

"  Then  I  want  you  to  send  some  soldiers  to  hunt  them 
up  and  make  them  work.  I've  got  to  have  help.  This 
is  my  busy  time." 

"  I  haven't  got  any  spare  men  to-day.  You  treat  your 
men  right  and  they  won't  run  off." 

"  But  I  want  them  now,  I  have  to  get  my  hay  in,"  the 
farmer  protested. 

"  Sorry,  but  I  can't  help  you  to-day." 

"Then  I  shall  send  them  off." 

"  You  can't  do  that,  I  say,"  said  the  bureaucrat,  pound 
ing  his  desk  with  his  fist.  "  Next  man,"  he  called  out, 
waving  his  hand,  while  the  farmer  turned  and  went  off 
cursing. 

Bourland  approached  and  bowed  courteously. 

"  I  have  stepped  in  — "  he  said. 

"  It  is  this  gentleman's  turn  next,"  the  agent  said 
brusquely,  motioning  him  back,  and  pointing  with  his  pen 
at  a  negro  on  the  bench. 

The  black  was  dressed  like  a  dandy,  in  an  officer's  long- 
skirted,  cast-off  coat,  a  white  vest  and  pantaloons,  and  a 
scarlet  necktie. 

This  was  the  first  time  that  Bourland  had  ever  been 
forced  to  give  precedence  to  a  negro.  His  anger  was 
about  to  volatilize,  but  when  he  saw  the  attire  and  the 
pompous  demeanor  of  the  fellow,  he  broke  into  a  smile. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  suavely  bowing  again  to 
the  agent  ;  "  I  didn't  mean  to  intrude  between  you  two 
gentlemen."  The  official  flushed  at  the  insinuating  ridi 
cule. 

The  negro  pranced  up  to  the  desk  and  laid  his  silk  hat 
upon  it. 

"  I'se  a  deputy,  sah,  f'um  sum  gem'meri  livin'  back  in  de 
kentry,  an'  I  hab  cum  to  axe  yuh  sum  questions." 


THE   LEVELLING   PROCESS  149 

"All  right,  ask  away." 

"  Is  we  culled  folk  to  be  hi'ahd  out  foh  fibe  years  ?  " 

"  Not  that  I  know  of.  You  can  hire  yourselves  out  if 
you  want  to.  When  you  get  a  good  place,  you  had  better 
keep  it." 

"  Ef  we  wishes  to  buy  a  piece  o'  Ian',  kin  we  do  it  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  if  you  have  the  money  to  pay  for  it." 

"I  should  laik  to  hab  a  piece  o'  writin'." 

"  What  about  ?  " 

"  A  writin'  dat  will  gib  me  an'  my  frien's  de  permission 
to  buy  Ian'." 

The  agent  wrote  upon  a  sheet  of  paper,  which  he  handed 
to  the  man,  who  thereupon  departed,  much  pleased. 

"  Now,  sir,"  said  the  agent,  turning  to  Bourland. 

"I  am  Mr.  Henry  Bourland." 

The  agent,  nettled  by  Bourland's  former  thrust,  had 
devised  a  subtle  revenge. 

"  Oh,  yes,  Bourland  —  Bourland,"  he  mused,  "  I  ought  to 
remember  that  case.  Aren't  you  the  man  who  knocked 
down  a  poor  colored  girl  ? "  There  was  a  sneer  on  his 
face.  "  She  has  lodged  a  complaint  against  you." 

"  What  was  the  colored  lady's  name  ?  "  asked  Bourland, 
with  absolute  composure. 

"I  don't  recall  it,"  said  the  agent,  with  embarrassed 
hesitation. 

"  Suppose  you  look  it  up  in  your  records." 

The  man  knew  it  was  not  there.  He  hid  the  blush  of 
his  thwarted  vengeance  in  his  record  book.  "  Oh,  here  it 
is ;  I  confused  your  case  with  another  man's,"  he  added, 
after  a  search  to  cover  his  retreat.  "  You  are  charged 
with  beating  one  of  your  men." 

"And  the  cause?"  asked  Bourland. 

"No  cause  given;  just  a  case  of  anger  and  cruelty." 

"  It  is  taken  for  granted,  I  suppose,  that  I  struck  the 
man  for  my  own  amusement."  His  tone  was  now 
haughty. 

"  We  don't  allow  anybody  to  strike  the  freedmen.  But 
since  this  is  your  first  offence,  I  shall  fine  you  only  ten 
dollars." 


150  HENRY   BOURLAND 

"  But  suppose  I  had  sufficient  cause  ?  " 

"  The  slavery  days  are  over,"  the  agent  retorted  quickly, 
"  and  you  planters  have  got  to  learn  to  treat  negroes  like 
men.  You  can't  take  the  law  in  your  own  hands." 

"  Even  when  they  act  like  brutes  ?  " 

"  You  are  all  equal  before  the  law.  We  are  here  to  pro 
tect  the  freedmen  and  guarantee  their  rights." 

"  You  do  that  admirably,"  replied  Bourland,  with  cool 
contempt. 

In  the  meantime  Parker  had  entered  the  office. 

"  Suppose,"  went  on  Bourland,  "  that  I  refuse  to  pay  this 
fine." 

"Then  I  shall  levy  on  your  property." 

"  See  here,  provo,"  interposed  Parker,  "  you  don't  fully 
understand  this  case.  This  gentleman  here  —  " 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  Bourland  said  affably,  turning  to  him. 
"  Don't  bother.  This  man  doesn't  want  to  understand. 
He  hasn't  even  inquired.  You  Yankees  have  got  us  down, 
and  you  mean  to  put  the  niggers  on  top.  Why  argue  about 
it?" 

He  took  out  two  bills  from  his  purse  and  laid  them  on 
the  desk.  The  agent  put  the  money  in  the  drawer. 

Bourland  still  waited. 

"  That's  all.  You  can  go  now.  Next  time  I  shall  not 
be  so  easy  with  you." 

"I  think  I  will  ask  a  receipt  from  you,  sir." 

The  man  colored  again  ;  for  again  he  was  defeated  in 
the  play  of  hostile  amenities.  Bourland  took  the  receipt, 
bowed  courteously,  and  left  the  office. 

But  that  bow  was  the  graceful  bending  of  a  steel  rod  by 
the  sheer  force  of  dignity. 

To  those  not  born  of  the  old  South  and  its  traditions, 
the  incident  may  seem  only  a  tempest  in  a  tea-kettle,  a 
mock-heroic  duel  with  popguns.  But  to  Bourland,  with 
his  arrogant  instincts,  this  subtle  beginning  of  the  levelling 
process,  this  degradation  of  the  pride  of  the  aristocrat  to 
the  plane  of  his  former  slave,  was  like  the  loathsome,  ven 
omous  sting  of  the  tarantula. 

He  had  fought  in  the  war  to  maintain  principles  that 


THE   LEVELLING  PROCESS  151 

\vere  logically  defensible.  And  when  he  had  been  beaten, 
lie  had  accepted,  without  rancor,  the  decision  of  arms. 
From  the  victors  he  had  expected,  if  not  magnanimity,  at 
least  the  courtesy  due  to  a  gentleman. 

Instead  of  that,  however,  he  and  his  countrymen  were 
about  to  undergo  the  humiliation  and  the  intolerable  insult 
of  negro  equality  and  negro  domination. 

He  began  to  sympathize  now  with  the  advocates  of  the 
"  glorious  inactivity,"  the  voluntary  exiles,  shut  up  in  their 
houses,  who  refused  to  participate,  even  to  resist,  in  the 
reconstruction.  At  least  they  did  save  their  self-respect. 

He  rode  home  in  a  virulent  mood,  with  jaws  firmly  set, 
clinching  riotous  language  ;  with  his  heart  suffocating  in 
bitterness  and  bile  ;  with  his  brain  a  seething  turbulence 
of  hatred  and  contempt  for  these  vulgar  conquerors. 


CHAPTER   XIX 

THE    ALIENATION    OF    THE    BLACKS 

ONE  evening  a  week  before  the  election  of  the  constitu 
tion  makers,  Parker  stopped  Bourland  in  the  streets  of 
Bray  ton. 

"Colonel,"  he  said,  touching  his  hat,  "we  are  to  have 
a  rally  to-night  in  Star  Corner  Hall.  Maynard  has  come 
up  from  Richmond.  He's  a  regular  firebrand.  I  think 
he'll  make  some  excitement ;  won't  you  come  to  hear 
him  ?  " 

"  Oh,  you  don't  want  me  around  there,"  replied  Bourland. 

"  Well,  there'll  be  some  rare  odors  in  the  room,  for 
these  niggers  are  a  job  lot  of  spices.  But  come  along ; 
you  can  stand  it.  It  will  amuse  you." 

He  had  nothing  to  do  that  evening,  so  he  went  to  the 
meeting. 

The  relation  between  these  two  men  was  now  super 
ficially  amicable.  Parker  apparently  cherished  no  resent 
ment  for  Bourland's  contemptuous  conduct  at  their  first 
meeting.  The  next  time  they  passed  each  other,  he 
spoke  affably,  and  Bourland  returned  an  indifferent 
recognition.  Later,  Parker,  with  purposes  of  his  own, 
forced  a  further  investigation  of  the  Bureau  incident,  in 
consequence  of  which  the  decision  was  reversed,  and  the 
fine  returned  with  an  apology  to  Bourland.  Only  through 
direct  inquiry  did  the  latter  learn  of  the  carpet-bagger's 
intervention. 

" Perhaps  I've  misjudged  him,"  thought  Bourland.  "He 
may  be  one  of  these  misguided  yet  sincere  missionaries." 

So  when  they  met  again,  he  thanked  him. 

"  Oh,  don't  speak  of  it ;  it  was  nothing,"  replied 
Parker  with  a  deprecating  gesture.  "  I  had  my  reasons." 

152 


THE  ALIENATION   OF  THE   BLACKS          153 

The  election  campaign  had  not  aroused  any  particular 
bitterness,  for  the  reason  that  the  Conservatives  disdained 
the  agitators,  and  made  no  attempt  to  interfere  with  their 
actions.  The  registration  of  voters  had  been  made  by 
the  Radical  politicians,  and  there  was  unlimited  opportu 
nity  for  fraud ;  for  the  negroes  were  practically  without 
local  habitation  or  a  name.  Bourland  had  made  some 
speeches,  and  with  volunteer  lieutenants  had  done  a 
great  deal  of  personal  canvassing.  But  neither  he  nor 
his  assistants  could  bring  themselves  down  to  the  point 
of  soliciting  votes  from  the  freedmen.  Among  these  the 
agitators  had  abundant  license  to  harangue  and  to 
embitter. 

The  whites,  it  was  manifest,  could  not  win  the  election 
by  their  unaided  votes  ;  many  of  them,  as  they  announced, 
had  failed  to  register.  The  only  doubt  of  the  result, 
indeed,  came  from  the  unknown  measure  of  success  of  the 
Radical  leaders  in  alienating  the  blacks  from  their  former 
masters.  As  Bourland  this  evening,  lured  by  curiosity, 
followed  Parker  to  the  political  rally,  he  began  to  study 
his  companion's  character.  The  man's  conduct  was 
becoming  more  and  more  of  a  riddle.  Beneath  a  surface 
of  grim,  fiery  zeal  there  was  a  grim  spirit  of  mockery  and 
ironical  humor.  Apparently  he  did  not  expect  intelli 
gent  men  to  take  all  his  professions  seriously. 

The  place  of  meeting  was  a  musty  room  over  a 
butcher's  shop.  Benches,  without  backs,  were  arranged 
on  two  sides  of  a  single  aisle.  The  gas-jets  gave  a  livid 
weirdness  to  the  black  skins  of  the  audience.  There  was 
a  great  deal  of  spitting,  cracking  of  peanuts,  ostentatious 
draughts  at  brown  bottles,  amid  outbursts  of  guffaw  that 
sounded  like  a  tom-tom  orchestra.  Some  few  recent 
recruits  in  the  political  army  sat  timidly  rigid,  with 
white  e}Teballs  all  astare,  as  if  their  coming  were  a  crimi 
nal  act.  Two  or  three  burly  Ethiopians,  evidently  men 
of  light  and  leading  (for  they  smoked  cigars),  walked  up 
and  down  the  aisle,  counting  men,  pausing  to  speak  to 
some,  and  to  affect  that  personal  interest  which  wins  so 
much  power  for  the  ward  boss. 


154  HENRY   BOURLAND 

Half  a  dozen  soldiers,  their  muskets  leaning  against  the 
wall,  stood  about  the  door. 

Parker  showed  Bourland  to  a  seat. 

"Are  you  going  to  speak  to-night,  Mr.  Parker?"  he 
asked. 

"  Oh  !  I  usually  scatter  a  few  pearls  among  the  swine. 
But  Maynard  will  make  the  hit.  That's  him  up  on  the 
platform  with  the  big  nose." 

Paper  handbills  were  scattered  about,  all  the  words  of 
which  were  printed  in  big  letters,  so  that  some  of  the 
negroes  could  spell  them  out  more  easily.  An  American 
flag,  carried  by  a  negro  in  soldier's  uniform,  was  at  the 
top  of  the  sheet.  Below  were  these  party  shibboleths  :  — 

MEN   OF   COLOR ! ! ! 

RALLY  ROUND  THE  FLAG,  BOYS! 

CITIZENS  OF  LACAMAC  COUNTY 

MAKE  ONE  MORE  BLOW  FOR  FREEDOM  AND  EQUALITY 
NOW  IS  THE  TIME 

STAND  FIRM 

VOTE   FOR  THE   CONVENTION 
ELECT   TO   THE   HOUSE   OF  DELEGATES 

WILLIAM   PARKER,   U.S.A. 
EZEKIEL  SIMPSON,   FREEDMAN. 

ON  TO   RICHMOND, 

GIVE  THEM   ANOTHER   APPOMATTOX. 
DOWN   WITH   REBELS,   TRAITORS,   AND    COPPERHEADS. 

Shortly  after  eight  o'clock  the  chairman,  a  scalawag 
from  Georgia,  called  the  meeting  to  order. 

This  Confederate  renegade,  after  a  few  preliminary 
remarks,  stating  the  purposes  of  the  meeting,  eulogizing 
the  acts  of  Congress,  the  local  .candidates,  and  after  mak 
ing  the  usual  platitudes  about  the  glories  of  republican 
institutions,  introduced  the  first  speaker,  the  Hon.  James 
Mallette. 

Mallette  had  come  down  from  Pennsylvania  under  the 
auspices  of  the  Equal  Rights  League  to  assist  in  the  Vir 
ginia  campaign.  He  was  a  great  admirer  of  Thaddeus 


THE  ALIENATION   OF  THE   BLACKS          155 

Stevens,  and  he  confined  his  remarks  to  a  fervent  pane 
gyric  of  the  leader  of  Congress.  He  saw,  and  very  craft 
ily,  too,  that  the  negroes  could  be  better  controlled  by  the 
emotions  which  a  picturesque  personality  arouses  than  by 
the  discussion  of  any  abstract  principles.  Stevens's  health 
just  at  this  time  gave  him  a  dramatic  opportunity ;  for 
that  stanch  abolitionist,  weakened  by  age  and  the  strain 
of  work,  was  nearing  his  end. 

"My  friends,"  Mallette  began,  "when  I  was  last  in 
Washington  I  saw  an  old  man  carried  into  the  halls  of 
Congress  on  a  chair.  His  hair  was  white,  and  his  head 
and  hands  trembled  with  infirmity.  He  has  but  a  few 
more  days  to  live.  But  I  heard  him  say,  with  that  kindly 
humor  we  all  love  so  much  in  him,  turning  to  the  vigorous 
fellows  who  bore  his  feeble  body,  ;  Boys,  when  you  die,  I 
wonder  who  then  will  carry  me  in  here  on  their  shoul 
ders  ? '  Any  day,  my  friends,  we  may  get  the  news  that 
this  great  and  good  man,  after  sixty  years  of  labor  for  the 
colored  people,  has  passed  from  life  into  death.  I  scarcely 
need  to  name  to  you  Thaddeus  Stevens." 

One  of  the  bosses  jumped  up  and  led  a  vociferous  cheer 
ing. 

The  speaker  then  began  an  account  of  Stevens's  political 
career,  which  had  been  dedicated  to  the  enslaved  race.  He 
had  fought  for  their  rights  as  for  his  own  children  ;  he  had 
loved  the  black  men  with  such  ardent  affection  that  he 
desired  to  lie  with  them  in  death,  and  he  had  given  orders 
that  his  body  should  be  laid  away  in  a  negro  cemetery. 

The  account  was  phrased  with  a  deal  of  sentimental 
though  doubtless  sincere  gush.  In  those  days  a  class  of 
quixotic  people,  with  ill-restrained  imagination,  forgetting 
that  even  in  slavery  days  there  were  vicious  negroes,  formed 
a  black  cult  and  worshipped  the  freedmen  as  devotees  wor 
ship  the  church  martyrs.  One  of  their  first  acts  of  philan 
thropy  was  to  establish  colleges  to  teach  the  liberated 
slaves  Latin  and  Greek. 

Mallette  was  one  of  these  sincere  sentimentalists.  He 
ended  his  remarks  with  a  personal  appeal. 

"  When  I  saw  Mr.  Stevens  the  last  time,  I  went  up  to 


156  HENRY   BOUKLAND 

him  and  said,  '  Sir,  I  am  going  down  into  Virginia  to  help 
the  freedmen  in  their  campaign,  and  I'm  going  to  tell  them 
about  you.  Haven't  you  a  word  to  send  to  the  colored 
people  ? '  He  gave  me  his  quivering  hand,  and  looked  at 
me  with  those  eyes  in  which  the  light  is  slowly  fading,  and 
said,  'Mr.  Mallette,  tell  them  that  I  may  not  live  long 
enough  to  see  it,  but  even  if  I  shall  be  dead,  I  want  them 
to  stand  back  of  me  and  the  party  that  has  given  them 
their  freedom.'  That's  what  he  told  me  to  tell  you,  my 
friends.  Now  here  is  a  chance  to  show  your  gratitude 
and  make  happy  the  last  days  of  the  good  man's  life. 
Will  you  send  up  to  Richmond  these  candidates,  stanch 
men  and  true,  Parker,  the  old  soldier,  and  Simpson,  one  of 
your  own  race,  to  carry  out  the  policy  of  your  great  bene 
factor?" 

He  sat  down.  One  of  the  black  bosses  shouted  out, 
"  Down  wif  de  rebs,  down  wif  de  traitors,"  and  from  all 
parts  of  the  room  came  the  echoes,  "Ya-as,  massa,  dat's 
whah  we'll  do !  Down  wif  de  rebs." 

Bourland  was  compelled  to  admire  the  speaker's  subtlety. 
In  all  the  course  of  his  speech  he  had  not  made  a  single 
bitter  allusion  to  the  Confederates,  yet  he  had  accomplished 
just  as  much  as  if  he  had  uttered  a  violent  tirade.  It  was 
a  speech,  commendable  on  the  face  of  it,  yet  sure  to  widen 
the  breach  between  the  whites  and  blacks  of  the  South. 

The  unctuous  Parker  then  arose.  As  he  stood  there  in 
his  long  black  coat,  he  reminded  one,  on  second  thought, 
not  so  much  of  a  church  vestryman  as  of  an  undertaker. 
He  was  sleek  and  suave.  But  before  he  finished,  his 
manner  changed,  and  Bourland  divined  the  secret  of  his 
influence  over  the  negroes. 

Parker  began  with  an  account  of  his  own  career  and  of 
his  personal  devotion  and  sacrifices  for  the  people  of  color  ; 
he  indulged  in  a  great  deal  of  cheap  political  rant,  but 
suddenly  taking  a  different  vein,  he  became  simple  and 
picturesque. 

"  My  fellow-citizens,  you  have  all  seen  cows  in  the 
fields,  those  patient  beasts  who  eat  grass,  and  are  milked 
for  their  master's  profit.  You  have  seen  oxen,  yoked  to 


THE  ALIENATION   OF   THE  BLACKS          157 

the  plough  and  the  cart.  Do  you  know,  my  brothers  and 
sisters,  that  you  have  been,  in  your  bondage,  just  like 
those  oxen  and  cattle  ?  You  have  strained  and  sweated 
and  tugged  for  your  masters  ;  you,  your  wives,  and  your 
children,  and  all  the  pay  you  have  got  is  the  lash  on  your 
backs.  But  the  chains  of  your  bondage  are  broken,  and 
now  the  time  has  come  when  you  shall  be  the  masters, 
and  your  oppressors  shall  be  put  into  the  yokes.  Yet  I 
tell  you  that  your  security  can  be  assured  only  by  the 
great  party  which  I,  by  your  choice,  have  the  honor  to 
represent.  I  take  this  leadership  with  humility,  realizing 
my  unworthiness.  But  I  shall  never  desert  your  cause, 
never,  until  you  stand  equal  in  law  and  privilege  to  the 
bluest-blooded  aristocrat  of  the  land.  By  the  scars  which 
I  won  on  the  battle-field  in  your  service,  I  pledge  that 
even  though  I  may  be  defeated  in  this  election,  I  will 
never  rest  in  my  labors  while  justice  is  undone  to  you 
and  all  your  race,  and  until  your  bright  dream  of  liberty 
is  a  hallowed  blessing  of  fact." 

Some  of  the  negroes  began  to  shout  and  croon.  The 
speaker  then  seemed  to  fall  into  a  trance,  his  body  and 
eyes  assuming  the  rigidity  and  stare  of  one  gifted  with 
prophetic  insight. 

"  O  Liberty  ! "  he  exclaimed  slowly,  with  the  rapt 
fervor  of  a  bard,  "  thou  goddess  of  men  !  I  see  thee  bear 
ing  in  thy  hands  a  lantern,  walking  in  the  dark  corners 
and  secret  ways,  awaking  the  souls  of  the  oppressed  for 
the  dawn  of  the  great  day.  I  see  thee,  yes,  thou  art  the 
holy  one,  with  Love  at  thy  right  hand  and  with  Mercy 
at  thy  left,  coming  to  this  benighted  people  to  break 
their  chains  and  dispel  the  darkness  in  which  they  have 
groaned  and  waited  for  this  hour." 

Sweat  was  running  down  the  man's  face ;  but  still, 
crouching  lower  as  the  emotion  possessed  him,  his  eyes 
maintained  their  set,  glassy  stare. 

He  stretched  out  his  arms  with  a  Mosaic  solicitude. 

"  Awake,  my  brothers,  awake  !  The  land  of  promise 
is  spread  around  you.  I  will  lead  you  against  the 
Philistines." 


158  HENRY  BOUBLAND 

The  audience  swayed  as  under  the  spell  of  hypnotic 
power ;  the  shouts  and  croons  grew  into  ecstasy  and 
frenzy,  and  the  bodies  of  many  began  to  swing  backward 
and  forward  as  if  in  pain.  Parker  let  the  enthusiasm 
continue  several  minutes,  and  then  he  started  to  sing  a 
hymn,  in  which  all  joined  — 

"  Oh !  mine  eyes  have  seen  the  glory  of  the  coming  of  the  Lord." 

The  singing  acted  as  a  safety  valve  and  saved  an 
emotional  riot.  While  it  was  going  on,  Parker  looked 
over  to  Maynard,  the  imported  orator,  with  a  jealous 
inquiry  which  seemed  to  say,  "  Come,  now,  let  us  see  if 
you  can  do  anything  better  than  that." 

As  Maynard  got  up  to  speak,  Bourland  noticed  that 
Parker  slipped  a  morsel  of  tobacco  between  his  prophetic 
lips,  and  sucked  it  contentedly  during  the  following 
oration. 

Maynard  was  a  notorious  figure  in  Virginia  politics. 
He  was  known  among  the  Conservatives  as  the  "Skunk." 
The  rumor  ran  that  he  had  been  expelled  from  a  North 
ern  college  for  disgraceful  conduct,  and  had  then  drifted 
to  Boston  as  a  negrophile.  After  the  war  he  came  down 
to  Virginia,  and  seeing  the  splendid  opportunity  for 
his  talents,  he  embraced  the  career  of  an  agitator  with 
the  courage  and  audacity  of  a  buccaneer. 

"  I've  got  something  to  say  to  you  gentlemen,"  he 
began,  "and  I'm  going  to  say  it  right  out.  You've  all 
heard  of  me.  Your  former  masters  have  heard  of  me. 
I'm  down  here  for  business  —  your  business.  You  ought 
to  have  homes  of  your  own,  every  one  of  you.  I  advo 
cate  the  confiscation  of  the  properties  of  all  rebels  and 
traitors,  and  I  believe  that  their  land  should  be  divided 
into  small  farms  and  given  to  you,  whose  sweat  and  labor, 
in  the  past,  have  given  them  their  value.  I  want  to  see 
every  one  of  you  the  owner  of  forty  acres,  a  house,  and 
a  hundred  dollars  in  cash.  As  for  these  aristocrats,  I 
want  to  see  them  run  out  of  the  country,  or  else  put  to 
work." 

Then  he  went  on,  with  rising  fury,  breaking  out  into  a 


THE   ALIENATION   OF   THE   BLACKS          159 

tirade  against  the  Confederates,  whom  he  regarded  as 
scoundrels  and  villains.  What  did  the  colored  men  owe  to 
them  ?  absolutely  nothing.  What  would  they  get  from 
them  ?  absolutely  nothing  but  a  slavery  that  was  worse 
than  their  former  bondage.  The  only  hope  of  the  colored 
race  lay  in  an  alliance  with  their  liberators  and  in  the 
extinction  of  their  former  masters  as  political  forces.  The 
freedman  by  all  the  claims  of  gratitude  and  self-interest 
owed  his  suffrage  to  the  new  party,  and  only  by  its  help 
could  the  colored  people  attain  full  freedom  and  social 
equality. 

"The  sons  of  the  old  Bay  State,"  he  cried,  "laid  in  the 
swamps  of  Chickahominy  and  died  to  set  you  free.  There 
are  others  in  Massachusetts  and  in  New  York  and  in  Ohio 
who  will  do  the  same  to  give  you  equal  privileges  with 
the  white  man  ;  the  same  seats  in  the  theatres,  the  same 
rooms  in  the  hotels,  the  same  schools  for  your  children. 
When  you  enter  a  white  man's  house,  you  ought  to  be 
invited  into  his  parlor.  When  you  enter  a  hotel,  you  ought 
to  be  seated  by  his  side  at  the  table.  You  ought  to  drink 
with  him  at  the  same  bar.  Anything  less  than  this  is  an 
insult  to  your  dignity  and  your  manhood." 

He  was  vigorously  applauded.  "  Dat's  hit,  massa,  dat's 
what  we  wants!  "  came  the  response  in  all  directions. 

"  Finally,  my  brethren,"  he  continued,  in  words  that  were 
reminiscent  of  a  Biblical  injunction,  "  now  that  you  have 
your  enemies  down,  you  must  smite  them  on  hip  and  thigh. 
Use  every  means  that  Providence  has  given  you  to  defeat 
your  former  oppressors.  Have  confidence'  in  each  other, 
stand  by  your  leaders,  and  give  your  enemies  blow  for 
blow." 

Some  white  men,  visitors  like  Bourland,  were  so  angered 
at  this  incendiarism  that  they  attempted  to  check  it.  A 
row  was  quelled  only  by  the  intervention  of  the  soldiers. 
When  quiet  was  restored,  the  meeting  was  closed  with  a 
prayer. 

As  Bourland  went  out,  he  stepped  up  to  the  officer  by 
the  door. 

"  See  here,  Sergeant,  you  soldiers  down  here  have  been 


160  HENRY   BOURLAND 

a  pretty  good  lot.  Do  you  propose  by  silence  to  ratify  the 
speech  of  that  last  scamp?" 

"  He's  a  dirty  blackleg,"  said  the  officer.  "  If  you  will 
enter  a  complaint,  I'll  gladly  put  him  under  arrest  for 
inflammatory  talk.  He  was  arrested  once  in  Richmond, 
but  nothing  much  came  of  it." 

"  Oh,  no  !  "  said  Bourland,  "  I'll  make  no  complaint. 
He  can  roar  on  till  doomsday  for  aught  of  me." 

Just  then  Parker  laid  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"It  was  a  good  meeting,  Colonel,  wasn't  it?"  he  said 
with  a  sneer  on  his  upper  lip. 

"  Splendid  !  "  replied  the  Virginian,  feeling  anew  an 
utter  disgust  for  this  hypocrite.  "  It  almost  tempts  me 
to  join  your  party." 

"Oh!  don't  do  that,  for  God's  sake."  He  laughed 
outright. 

Bourland  searched  his  inscrutable  countenance.  The 
man  bore  an  easy  nonchalance. 

"  Parker,  what  are  you  about  anyway  ?  "  he  asked  with 
assumed  affability.  "What  did  you  bring  me  around 
here  for?" 

Parker  rubbed  his  finger  against  his  nose  and  chuckled. 
"  'Tain't  quite  so  big  as  Maynard's,  is  it  ?  He's  a  hand 
some  beggar."  Then  he  went  off,  humming:  — 

"  Oh !  mine  eyes  have  seen  the  glory  of  the  coming  of  the  Lord." 


CHAPTER  XX 

A   CONSEQUENCE   OP   THE  LEVELLING   PKOCESS 

Two  days  later,  in  the  afternoon,  Margaret  Bourland 
went  across  the  fields  to  visit  an  invalid  neighbor,  the 
wife  of  a  small  farmer  who  had  taken  one  of  Bourland's 
patches. 

She  found  the  woman  fagged  out,  her  eyes  lustreless, 
her  skin  mummified  with  work  and  low  feeding,  her  voice 
a  disconsolate  drawl. 

"  My  old  man  has  gone  down  to  hire  another  nigger. 
Pete  run  away  last  week.  I  can't  work  ;  I  wish  I  was 
dead." 

The  forlorn  creature  began  to  cry  and  rub  her  eyes 
with  the  bed  sheet. 

Margaret  spoke  a  few  words  of  comfort,  and  gave  her 
the  contents  of  a  basket;  and  then,  after  an  hour's  stay, 
she  started  again  for  the  Hall,  distant  somewhat  over  a 
mile. 

A  short  cut  by  a  footpath  led  across  an  open  field,  and 
then  through  a  wood. 

The  autumn  season  was  at  the  flush  of  its  brilliance. 
Overhead  gray  scud  swept  joyously  beneath  the  blue. 
The  trees,  shimmering  in  the  gorgeous  raiment  of  royal 
magnificence,  swayed  with  graceful  bendings,  and  the 
leaves,  beaten  by  the  flail  of  the  breeze,  were  tumultuous 
with  the  resounding  murmurs  of  wind  harps.  She  stopped, 
thrilled  with  the  gladness  of  living,  to  gather  some  purple 
grasses. 

She  came  to  the  edge  of  the  woodland  and  stepped 
across  its  boundary.  The  light  darkened  ;  there  was  a 
change  in  the  tones.  Beneath  the  symphony  of  aerial 

M  161 


162  HENRY    BOURLAND 

music  she  caught  the  hush,  the  lonely,  murmurous  breath 
ing  of  the  forest  —  an  impressive  voice  of  sanctity  like 
that  which  haunts  the  gloom  of  some  ancient  cathedral. 

From  a  hidden  perch  came  a  full-throated  hymn  of 
praise  from  some  lone  chorister. 

Margaret  paused,  drinking  in  the  delight,  the  reveren 
tial  calm  of  the  solitude. 

A  brook  ran  through  the  wood.  There  was  a  liquid 
gurgle,  recurrent  as  the  beat  of  a  pendulum,  as  it  eddied 
among  the  rocks  ;  there  was  a  lilt  in  its  melody,  as  it 
slipped  along,  as  smoothly  flowing  as  the  stream  of  time. 

She  watched  the  play  of  color  on  its  surface ;  the 
bronze  glint  of  the  sun,  the  silver  sheen  of  diffused  light, 
the  crystalline  clearness  of  smooth  pebbles,  trailing  moss, 
and  dark  brown  ooze  in  the  bed  of  the  water. 

She  was  loath  to  leave,  and  lingered,  while  the  brook 
prattled  its  unending  narrative. 

Overhead,  invisible,  sailed  a  trio  of  crows,  cawing  and 
snarling  like  disgruntled  old  beldames. 

A  rustling  of  leaves,  the  tramp  of  feet,  suddenly  broke 
her  revery.  She  turned,  and  beheld  the  bestial  face  of 
Black  Sam,  the  Alabama  negro,  peering  above  a  clump 
of  bushes. 

The  caution  of  his  movements  froze  her  blood  in  its 
coursing.  She  arose  quickly  and  went  on  her  way.  He 
began  to  move  —  to  quicken  his  pace  —  to  overtake  her. 

Her  limbs  lost  their  strength  ;  she  hurried  to  a  tree 
for  support. 

Alone  !  alone  !  alone  ! 

He  was  now  within  ten  yards  of  her.  Her  impulse 
was  to  scream ;  but  she  restrained  it.  Suddenly  the 
crisis  gave  her  full  command  of  her  nerves.  She  looked 
at  him  with  a  face  of  composure. 

"  Hab  yuh  los'  yuh  way,  Miss'  Bourlan'  ? "  he  said, 
approaching. 

"  Oh,  no,  I  just  stopped  here  for  a  while  to  rest." 

"  I'll  tek  yuh  home." 

"  I  can  get  home  all  right  by  myself,"  she  replied  with 
determination.  "  You  go  about  your  business." 


A  CONSEQUENCE  OF  THE  LEVELLING  PEOCESS     163 

" 1  ain't  got  no  business,"  he  answered.  "  I  doan'  wuk 
no  moah  fob  Mass'  Bouiian'.  He  done  whup  me,  an'  I  lef 
'im.  1'se  a  free  man,  an'  jes'  as  good  as  Mass'  Bourlan'. 
I  doan'  let  no  white  trash  whup  me." 

Her  nerves  were  beginning  to  quiver  under  the  strain. 

"  Da's  a  fac',"  he  went  on  ;  "  I  doan'  let  no  white  trash 
whup  me.  Da's  a  fac'.  I'se  jes'  as  good  as  Mass'  Bour 
lan' hisself.  I'se  a  free  man." 

There  was  an  impudent  leer  in  his  face.  She  was  terri 
fied  now. 

"Da's  a  mighty  peart-lookin'  dress  yuh  hab  on,  Miss' 
Bourlan',"  he  continued,  coming  closer. 

She  saw  his  fierce  eyes  glazing,  his  breath  quickening. 
She  turned  and  attempted  to  run. 

"  Dat  ain't  de  way  home  to  de  Hall,"  he  shouted.  "  Hit's 
dis  way.  I'll  tek  yuh  home."  He  pursued  her,  and  put 
his  hand  upon  her  shoulder. 

"  Go  away,"  she  shrieked  helplessly. 

"  I'se  gwine  to  tek  yuh  home.  You'se  done  tuckered  out. 
I'll  kerry  yah  dah."  He  put  his  arms  around  her  waist. 

With  her  last  strength  she  tore  herself  loose  and 
darted  away.  Then  her  judgment  forsook  her.  In  her 
fright  she  seized  a  rock  from  the  ground,  and  flung  it  at 
him  with  wild  screams. 

"Help  !  h-e-l-p!  Henry!" 

He  tightened  his  clasp.     His  hand  gripped  her  throat. 

Suddenly  the  report  of  a  gun  rattled  among  the  trees. 

She  did  not  hear  it.  As  the  brute  released  his  hold  and 
ran,  she  sank  down  in  a  swoon. 

She  regained  consciousness  slowly.  She  still  felt  that 
awful  grip,  as  of  a  tightening  noose  around  her  neck  ;  she 
saw  only  blank  vagueness,  out  of  which  peered  the  glazed 
eyes,  the  ferocious  white  teeth  of  the  monster,  burning  her 
cheek  with  his  hot  breath. 

A  man  was  bending  over  her,  dashing  water  into  her 
face  from  his  hat. 

She  broke  into  the  wild  cry  of  a  coyote,  pitched  at  one 
moment  up  to  the  strident,  and  then  falling  into  a  low, 
human  wail. 


164  HENRY   BOURLAND 

"  Take  it  away  from  my  throat,"  she  pleaded,  rolling 
her  eyes  and  grinding  her  teeth.  "  Take  it  away.  I 
choke." 

She  flung  her  arms  about  the  man's  knees,  as  if  they 
were  the  supporting  tree  ;  then,  relaxing  her  hold,  she 
began  to  beat  him  with  her  fists. 

"  Oh,  you  devil !     Let  me  alone !     Oh !  oh !  H-e-n-r-y ! " 

"It's  me,  Mrs.  Bourland.  Your  friend,  Mr.  Trymier." 
He  leaned  down,  and  shouted  the  words  in  her  ear. 

"  Yes,  I  know.  Oh  !  please  don't  hurt  me.  Take  him 
away.  There  he  is  !  Look  !  look  !  " 

Once  more  the  wild,  helpless  cry  ;  she  struggled  and 
writhed  and  fought,  and  then  sank  back  exhausted,  a 
quivering  mass  of  nerves. 

He  picked  her  up  and  carried  her  back  to  his  house. 
His  wife  jumped  out  of  bed.  They  laid  her  in  it,  sent  the 
children  for  the  neighbor  across  the  road,  and  then  tried 
to  restore  her.  In  half  an  hour  she  regained  her  senses. 

Trymier  got  on  his  horse  and  rode  up  to  the  Hall.  He 
found  Bourland  walking  from  the  stables. 

"  Mr.  Bourland,"  said  he,  with  an  agitation  only  partly 
suppressed,  "  will  you  ride  over  to  my  house  for  a  few  mo 
ments  ?  " 

"Certainly,"  replied  Bourland,  calling  the  boy  to  bring 
his  horse  out.  "  Is  your  wife  worse  ?  " 

"  It's  your  wife,  sir,"  the  man  blurted  out,  in  spite  of  a 
resolution  to  be  tactful. 

"  My  wife  !     Tell  me  what  has  happened,  man  !  " 

Trymier  hesitated. 

"  For  God's  sake,  tell  me  quick  !  "  He  caught  him  by 
the  shoulders. 

"  She  was  coming  through  the  woods," —  Trymier's  face 
grew  white,  and  he  uttered  the  words  with  ominous  reluc 
tance. 

All  the  country  just  then  was  horrified  by  the  news  of 
the  recent  outrage  in  Mississippi,  where  a  black  brute  had 
captured  a  young  woman,  dragged  her  into  a  lonely  wood, 
bound  her  to  a  tree,  and  had  kept  her  there  for  a  week. 

An  infernal  picture  flashed  in  Bourland's  brain.     He 


A  CONSEQUENCE  OF  THE  LEVELLING  PROCESS     165 

reeled  backward,  and  blotted  out  his  sight  with  his  hands  ; 
but  the  inward  vision  grew  only  to  clearer  outlines.  Try- 
mier  came  to  his  support. 

"  Bear  it  like  a  man,  sir.     I  came  in  time." 

"  Oh  !  my  wife  !  "  the  man  moaned.  He  quailed,  as  if 
some  one  were  ripping  off  the  live  skin. 

"  Hell  on  earth !  "  he  roared  suddenly,  like  one  gone 
mad.  A  murderous  fury  flashed  out  of  his  eyes.  "  A 
nigger,  a  dirty  black  nigger!  "  He  shook  his  fists  at  the 
blue  heavens. 

"  Get  my  horse  !  "  he  cried,  stamping  his  foot. 

When  it  came,  he  flung  himself  upon  it,  dug  his  heels 
into  its  sides,  and  drove  it  ahead  until  it  began  to  pant 
and  wheeze.  He  could  feel  its  sinews  all  astrain.  The 
sweat  began  to  pour  out  of  its  sides.  The  beat  of  its 
hoofs  on  the  fallen  twigs  and  leaves  came  like  the  cry 
of  overridden  souls.  He  held  his  seat  with  difficulty. 
All  the  trees  appeared  blood-red,  rushing  past  him  with 
cosmic  speed.  Once  the  horse,  faltering,  carried  him  into 
an  outstretching  bough,  which  cut  against  his  face  like  a 
whip.  He  did  not  notice  the  pain  of  the  slash  ;  he  saw 
only  that  agonizing  black  spectre  ;  all  the  rest  was  a 
vague  hurly-burly  and  chaos. 

Once  he  turned  his  face  to  the  skies. 

"  Oh,  God  !     It  could  not  be  possible." 

At  length,  he  came  in  sight  of  Trymier's  house.  He 
jerked  his  horse  from  the  road,  forced  it  to  jump  a  fence, 
breaking  the  top  rail,  and  then  he  cut  obliquely  across  the 
open  field.  Trymier  had  been  unable  to  keep  up  with  him. 
One  more  fence,  and  he  would  be  there.  But  the  horse 
could  not  take  it.  It  sank  down  exhausted  on  its  knees. 

With  a  leap  and  fling  Bourland  went  over  the  rail,  and 
rushed  to  the  house. 

"  Stop  !  "  cried  a  woman,  barring  his  entrance,  "  you 
can't  go  in  this  way.  Sit  down  here  and  become  calmer. 
She  is  out  of  danger." 

He  seized  the  woman's  hands,  horny  with  toil,  and 
pleaded  to  go  in.  But  she  refused,  until  he  could  speak 
without  agitation. 


166  HENRY   BOUKLAKD 

He  entered  the  room  softly,  where  his  wife  lay  on  the 
bed.  She  was  breathing  heavily,  and  her  muscles  were 
twitching  under  the  uncontrollable  excitement  of  the 
nerves.  At  the  sound  of  his  step  she  turned  her  eyes 
toward  the  door. 

"  Margaret  !  " 

A  look  of  shame  distorted  her  countenance. 

"  Oh,  Henry  !  not  you  !  "  she  gasped.  "  Go  away,  dear, 
go  away."  She  averted  her  face  quickly,  turning  toward 
the  wall,  and  hiding  it  in  the  depths  of  the  pillow. 

"  Margaret  !     To  whom,  rather  than  to  me,  my  wife  ?  " 

Then  she  turned  to  him,  her  eyes  liquid  with  super- 
sensitive  modesty,  and  whispered  timidly  :  — 

"  I  was  afraid,  dearest,  that  you  —  " 

But  he  stopped  the  rest  of  it  with  a  kiss.  He  gathered 
her  into  his  arms  and  held  her,  as  a  strong  man  holds  a 
child ;  and  she,  in  answer,  put  her  arms  around  his  broad 
breast,  and  hid  her  face  again  from  his  sight.  He  could 
feel  the  delicious  tightening  of  her  clasp,  the  strength  of 
her  feminine  frailty,  the  mute  confidence  of  security  in 
the  asylum  of  his  arms. 

He  felt  all  the  brute  pride  of  a  king  lion  guarding  his 
mate. 

There  they  lay,  side  by  side,  until  the  dusk  drew  on. 
Little  by  little  she  regained  her  composure.  No  one 
disturbed  them  until,  somewhat  later,  Eleanor  entered, 
and  sent  him  out  of  the  room. 

Out  of  her  sight,  the  ferocity  of  a  brute,  driven  to  bay, 
returned  to  dominate  him  like  the  delirium  tremens.  The 
maddening  spectacle  branded  his  brain  fibres,  and  clung  to 
his  thoughts  —  an  obsession  from  the  blackness  of  hell. 
As  he  brooded  upon  it,  his  blood  began  to  swell,  to  distend 
the  veins,  to  scald  his  muscles,  to  cauterize  the  ends  of  his 
nerves.  The  vindictive  fury  of  the  savage  grew  to  a  pas 
sion  that  blinded  his  judgment  and  overwhelmed  his  will. 
He  lost  the  restraining  conscience  of  civilized  man  ;  he 
became  a  stalking  rage. 

He  snatched  the  farmer's  gun  from  its  hook,  and  turned 
to  the  woman  who  watched  him  full  of  fear. 


A  CONSEQUENCE  OF  THE  LEVELLING  PROCESS     167 

"  Mrs.  Trymier,  go  get  me  some  powder  and  shot  — 
buckshot." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Bourland  I  "  she  replied,  "  Trymier  has  gone 
hunting  for  him.  Leave  it  to  him,  sir.  The  nigger  can't 
be  far  off.  He  shot  him  in  the  leg." 

"  Stop  talking.     Go  get  me  the  shot,"  he  cried  angrily. 

She  obeyed  him.     He  loaded  the  gun. 

"  Trymier's  out  in  the  woods  now,  beating  it  with  two 
other  men.  He's  got  a  lantern  with  him,"  she  said.  "  Be 
careful." 

He  made  no  reply,  but  strode  out  to  the  woods.  He  saw 
nothing  as  he  went  —  nothing  except  the  branded  vision 
leading  him  on  like  a  demon.  At  last  he  did  become  aware 
that  ahead  of  him  was  a  swinging  point  of  light.  He  joined 
the  men  without  saying  a  word. 

"  I  got  him  in  the  leg,  I  know,"  said  Trymier  ;  "  I  saw 
him  drop.  He  can't  a-gone  far." 

"  Search,  man,  search  him  out,"  ordered  Bourland,  testily. 
"  Don't  talk." 

His  lips  were  tight  set.  His  eyes  took  in  everything, 
but  through  the  terrible  medium  of  that  mind  spectacle. 

They  searched  the  woods  for  an  hour,  and  at  last  came 
upon  him,  lying  close  under  a  rock  among  some  bushes. 
He  crawled  closer  to  cover  and  howled  for  mercy.  There 
was  a  trail  of  blood  on  the  leaves. 

At  the  sight  of  him  Bourland  began  to  dance  under  the 
nervous  derangement.  "  Hold  up  the  light,"  he  shouted, 
as  he  lifted  the  gun.  He  hesitated  to  fire,  lowering  the 
weapon. 

"  Let  me  do  it,  Mr.  Bourland.  The  Yankee  authorities 
may  make  trouble  for  you,"  said  Trymier. 

"  Damn  Yankee  authorities  to  hell,  and  this  nigger  with 
them,"  he  said  fiercely.  "  I  was  only  afraid  I  couldn't  hit 
him  ;  I'm  shaking  all  over.  Hold  up  that  light  again." 

In  the  meanwhile  the  negro  had  not  ceased  to  plead  for 
his  life  ;  but  the  night  air  only  bellowed  the  pleas  into  the 
far  skies,  while  the  woods  rang  with  echoes. 

Bourland  crept  up  to  him  ;  amid  the  gloom  he  could 
distinctly  see  the  reflections  of  the  lantern,  —  two  bright 


168  HENRY  BOUKLAND 

dots  on  the  shining  eyeballs.  The  man  was  so  wedged  in 
that  he  could  not  escape.  Bourland  took  aim  between  the 
two  eyes  and  fired. 

Then  he  turned  quickly  away,  and  the  men  went  silently 
home. 


BOOK   V 
A   MEMBER   OF   THE   OLD   GUARD 


CHAPTER  XXI 

PARKER   MAKES    KNOWN    HIS    PURPOSE 

THE  election  day  came  ;  it  brought  a  decisive  victory 
for  the  Radicals.  The  destiny  of  Virginia  passed  into  the 
control  of  the  reconstructionists,  whose  duty  it  was  to 
draft  a  new  constitution,  to  submit  it  to  Congress,  and  to 
apply  for  the  readmission  of  the  state  to  the  Union. 

There  were  rumors,  of  course,  that  the  result  had  been 
accomplished  by  trickery  and  fraud  —  most  of  them 
vague.  But  there  were  specific  complaints  against  the 
gerrymanders,  and  specific  charges  of  illegal  registration 
of  the  negroes.  It  was  undeniable  that  in  Richmond,  the 
military  supervisors,  fearing  the  Radicals  had  not  a  ma 
jority,  kept  the  polls  open  until  they  did  obtain  it. 
These,  however,  were  only  trivial  incidents  in  the  game  of 
politics.  There  was  something  more  important ;  a  study 
of  the  returns  showed  that  the  endeavor  to  alienate  the 
freedmen  from  the  white  Confederates  had  been  as  suc 
cessful  as  the  dream  of  desire.  Negro  domination,  under 
the  guide  and  leadership  of  the  carpet-baggers  and  scala 
wags,  was  an  accomplished  fact. 

The  case  of  the  old  planters  and  the  old  families  seemed 
desperate.  Even  under  the  best  conditions  the  chances 
of  reestablishing  themselves  were  not  inspiriting.  Dur 
ing  the  years  just  after  the  close  of  the  war,  it  is  true, 

169 


170  HENRY   BOUELAND 

there  were  some  who  were  sanguine,  or  at  least  hopeful. 
Staples  had  commanded  high  prices,  cotton  was  still  the 
commercial  king,  and  there  had  been  a  great  deal  of  finan 
ciering  and  speculating  on  futurities  —  all  of  which  had 
given  a  boom  to  trade.  But  a  reaction  had  come,  and  a 
collapse  was  imminent. 

Bourland  kept  aloof  from  all  visionary  schemes,  how 
ever  alluring.  Like  the  shoemaker,  he  stuck  to  his  last. 
He  watched  his  plantation  with  the  diligence  of  a  spy. 
He  practised  the  most  rigid  economy.  He  rented  the 
unused  lands  to  small  tenants.  He  learned,  with  Mar 
garet's  assistance,  to  keep  a  book  of  accounts  with  rigor 
ous  exactness.  But  the  figures,  at  the  end  of  a  year,  were 
mute,  inexorable  records  of  a  checked  endeavor  to  advance. 
He  had  just  lived. 

He  sat  before  the  fire  in  the  parlor,  a  few  days  after  the 
election,  facing  in  his  meditations  the  prospect  of  this 
new  regime,  —  a  regime  that  would  be  inimical  to  his 
interests  and  probably  tyrannous  in  its  legislation.  Ex 
cept  for  his  melancholy  thoughts,  he  was  quite  alone.  He 
saw  his  inheritance  drifting  away,  like  a  storm-beaten 
ship  parting  its  cables. 

Eleanor  slipped  into  the  room  unawares.  She  put  her 
chill  hands  over  his  burning  forehead. 

"  I  think  I  can  guess  your  thoughts,"  she  said.  She 
was  of  his  blood  and  kin. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  he  muttered.  "  It  is  always  the  same 
thing.  It  just  gnaws,  gnaws,  gnaws." 

She  sat  down  before  the  fire  at  his  feet,  looking  into  it 
mournfully. 

"  Suppose  the  loss  of  our  home  were  not  the  worst  pos 
sibility." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  he  asked,  as  one  scared  by  a 
sudden  awakening  from  sleep. 

She  simply  pointed  upward,  indicating  the  room  above. 

44  Oh  !  don't  say  that.  It  can't  be  possible.  There 
must  be  some  grain  of  mercy  left  for  us  up  in  heaven." 

"  Yes,"  she  replied.  "  But  some  people  do  not  get  it 
until  after  death." 


PARKER   MAKES   KNOWN    HIS   PURPOSE     171 

He  began  to  walk  in  his  agitation. 

"  Go  up  to  Margaret,  Eleanor  ;  watch  her,  do  everything 
you  can.  Nurse  her  back  to  health  and  strength.  Oh, 
God  !  we  cannot  spare  her  !  We  cannot  !  We  can 
not!  " 

After  his  sister  had  left  him  he  sank  again  into  an  arm 
chair,  weak,  enervated,  trembling.  He  was  overwhelmed 
with  the  appalling  consciousness  that  he  had  become  lack 
ing  in  all  personal  force.  He  was  not  physically  weary, 
yet  all  his  boasted  energy  had  transpired  out  of  his  limbs. 
He  was  reluctant  to  act,  to  move,  even  to  shift  his  posi 
tion.  His  will  lay  lax  like  a  rope. 

Some  one  came  up  the  steps  and  walked  heavily  across 
the  veranda.  Bourland  went  to  the  door  in  response  to 
the  rap  of  the  brazen  knocker.  At  first  he  did  not  recog 
nize  the  visitor,  but  a  shaft  of  light  soon  illumined  the 
face  of  Parker. 

The  sight  of  him  aroused  all  the  irritant  bile  in  Bour- 
land's  nature.  Ever  since  that  political  rally  he  had 
loathed  him  like  the  touch  of  a  frog. 

There  was  nothing  to  do  now,  however,  but  to  invite 
him  in.  He  did  so  coldly. 

"  This  fire  is  warmer  than  your  reception,  Colonel  Bour 
land,"  said  Parker,  with  genial  frankness. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  replied  Bourland,  whose  repug 
nance,  on  second  thought,  had  yielded  place  to  his  natural 
courtesy.  He  offered  him  a  cigar. 

"No,  thanks.  I'll  stuff  up  my  pipe.  An  old  sailor 
and  forty-niner  and  soldier  like  me  gets  used  to  it.  I've 
never  forsaken  my  first  love." 

Parker  lit  his  pipe,  lay  back  in  the  arm-chair,  and 
stretched  out  his  legs. 

"  Colonel  Bourland,  I  want  to  have  a  little  talk  with 
you,  just  between  ourselves.  If  nothing  comes  of  it,  I  can 
rely  on  you  to  keep  quiet,  can't  I?  " 

Bourland  rather  disdainfully  assented. 

"  You  never  had  any  trouble  with  the  authorities  about 
that  nigger  hunt,  did  you  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  expect  to  have  any." 


172  HENRY   BOUKLAND 

"  Well,  down  there  in  the  Freedman's  Bureau  you 
haven't  got  many  friends.  I  suppose  you  know  that." 

"  I  could  guess  it,  if  I  didn't  know  it." 

"There  was  a  good  deal  of  talk  about  making  you 
trouble,  but  I  just  squashed  it.  No  !  don't  thank  me. 
I  have  my  reasons  for  everything  I  do,  and  I  don't  pro 
fess  missionary  love." 

"  Except  for  niggers,"  said  Bourland. 

"  Oh,  well,  that's  another  matter  ;  that's  politics." 

"  Will  you  tell  me  something,  Mr.  Parker  ? "  asked 
Bourland,  showing,  for  the  first  time,  an  interest  in  the 
conversation. 

"If  lean." 

"  Were  you  a  soldier,  or,  as  rumor  reports,  only  a  sutler 
in  the  army  ?  " 

Bourland  looked  at  him  searchingly.  The  other  man, 
with  a  serious  mien,  raised  his  hand  as  if  to  take  an  oath. 

"  Colonel,  by  all  that  I  hold  sacred,  by  the  Bible  that 
my  mother  put  in  my  trunk,  I  was  for  three  months  a 
soldier,  one  of  Lincoln's  first  volunteers.  But  the  rest 
of  the  time  I  was  a  sutler." 

He  broke  into  a  laugh,  as  if  the  truth  were  a  joke,  and 
the  laugh  turned  almost  into  guffaw  when  he  saw  the 
surprise  on  Bourland's  face. 

"  Well,  you  are  the  most  honest  hypocrite  I  ever  saw," 
said  Bourland,  with  disgust.  "  That  is  more  frank  than 
polite,"  he  added,  smiling. 

"  Oh !  don't  apologize.  I  haven't  lived  in  polite 
circles." 

"Why  are  you  so  ready  to  admit  the  truth,  when 
you  profess  —  otherwise  ?  "  Bourland  asked  with  a  bit  of 
euphemism. 

"  Because  I'm  unknown  down  here,  and  my  enemies 
don't  know  how  to  abuse  me  personally.  I  want  to  be 
abused,  persecuted,  as  much  as  possible.  That  will  make 
votes  and  loyal  friends  for  me.  You  see,  I  throw  open 
my  weak  side  for  you  to  strike." 

By  this  time  Bourland  was  interested,  with  the  curios 
ity  of  a  student  of  criminology. 


PARKER  MAKES   KNOWN   HIS  PURPOSE     173 

"Where  did  you  get  the  wound  you  talk  of?'*  he 
asked. 

"I  got  it  honestly.  I'll  tell  you,  but  I'll  ask  you  to 
keep  it  secret.  I  never  told  anybody  down  here.  I  got 
it  out  in  California  in  '49,  driving  a  man  off  my  claim." 

"  You'd  make  a  good  hero  for  a  novel  in  the  bow-wow 
style.  You'd  put  Roderick  Random  to  the  blush,"  said 
Bourland,  amused. 

Parker  puffed  away  at  his  pipe  and  became  reminiscent. 
"  I've  got  reason  to  be  smart,  for  I've  learned  heaps  by 
experience.  I  never  took  to  books.  When  I  was  seven 
teen,  I  ran  off  to  sea,  and  sailed  around  the  world.  I've 
been  in  South  Africa,  Australia,  India,  and,  I  tell  you, 
I  have  had  a  tough  time  of  it  —  knocked  about  like  a 
cur,  and  fed  like  a  beggar.  And  yet,"  he  added,  smiling, 
"  the  wonderful  thing  of  it  all  is  that  I  never  have  lost 
my  sweetness  of  temper.  But  I've  got  my  sore  point. 
Don't  touch  that,  or  you'll  touch  the  devil." 

A  change  in  his  voice  and  manner  showed  plainly  that 
under  the  suave  skin  of  the  politician  there  hid  a  fierce, 
satanic  personality. 

"  I've  been  talking  too  much  biography,  Colonel,  and 
wasting  time.  Let  me  get  to  the  point.  I  suppose  you've 
come  to  realize  that  I'm  a  man  of  influence  in  this  county. 
Before  long  I  shall  be  a  leader  in  the  state  at  large.  I've 
got  a  strange  power,  a  kind  of  hypnotism,  over  the  nig 
gers.  You  observed  that  at  the  meeting  the  other  night, 
didn't  you?  My  speech  was  more  effective  than  that 
other  wind-bag's,  wasn't  it  ?  " 

"  It  was  very  well  done,"  admitted  Bourland. 

"  I  shall  be  in  a  position  to  do  you  many  good  turns  in 
the  future,  Colonel.  I  understand  you  desire  very  much 
to  keep  this  estate  just  as  it  is.  There  are  hard  times 
ahead  for  you  planters.  You  know  what  these  Radicals 
propose  to  do.  They  have  got  control  of  the  South,  will 
occupy  the  offices  ;  they'll  make  and  administer  the  laws  ; 
in  fact,  they've  got  you  aristocrats  by  the  throat.  If 
they  have  their  way,  they'll  tax  you  out  of  existence,  as 
well  as  gather  up  the  swag." 


174  HENRY  BOURLAND 

"  Aren't  there  any  honest  men  among  you  ? "  asked 
Bourland. 

"I  suppose  there  are  some  reasonably  honest.  But  if 
that  old  fellow  that  used  to  go  around  with  a  lamp  in 
daytime  were  alive  to-day,  I  think  he'd  have  to  hunt 
awhile.  That's  my  view  of  my  political  friends.  The 
honest  ones  don't  drift  into  this  kind  of  politics." 

"I  suppose  it  means  ruin  for  our  old  families." 

"  Yes,  it  means  ruin.  But  I've  taken  a  fancy  to  you, 
and  I'm  ready  to  play  your  life  buoy.  To  come  to  the 
point :  I'll  make  a  proposition.  I'll  fix  the  tax  assessors, 
who  will  rate  you  low.  There's  one  thing.  Then  I'll  let 
you  in  on  some  little  deals,  improvements  where  we  can 
use  your  name.  It's  worth  money,  Colonel,  your  name  is. 
There's  a  second  thing.  Furthermore,  when  the  excite 
ment  dies  down,  you  can  see  some  new  political  lights. 
I'll  get  you  a  good  sinecure  with  a  tree  on  it  that  grows 
greenbacks  for  leaves." 

Bourland's  face  suddenly  became  white  and  cold.  He 
saw  now  what  a  mistake  he  had  made  in  tolerating  the 
man's  presence  and  talk.  But  having  begun,  he  resolved 
to  probe  his  infamy  to  the  source  of  its  corruption. 

"  What  can  I  do  for  you  in  return  ?  I  have  nothing  to 
offer." 

Parker  was  watching  him  intently ;  but  he  did  not  read 
the  signs  aright.  He  mistook  the  cold  indignation  for 
the  effect  of  temptation. 

"  I've  got  a  wife,"  he  went  on,  "  she's  a  very  decent  little 
body.  To  tell  the  truth,  I  like  her.  I've  got  some  money, 
and  before  long  I  expect  to  be  rich.  I'm  getting  old,  but 
I'd  like  to  die  respectable.  I'm  going  to  settle  here,  and 
make  Virginia  my  home.  But  it's  pretty  lonely  for  her 
and  for  me,  too,  not  to  have  any  society.  It's  pretty  hard 
to  be  snubbed  by  everybody  except  niggers." 

"  How  can  I  help  that  ?  "  answered  Bourland,  puzzled  at 
the  strange  turn  of  the  talk. 

"  Well  !  "  Parker  hesitated,  "  suppose  your  wife  or  your 
sister  were  to  ask  us  up  here,  and  later  give  us  a  coming 
out  among  the  F.  F.  Vs.  I'll  pay  all  the  bills." 


PAEKEE  MAKES   KNOWN  HIS  PUEPOSE     175 

"  Good  God  !  man,  are  you  a  fool  ?  "  cried  Bourland, 
springing  up  with  a  discharge  of  wrath. 

Parker  smiled  like  the  villain  in  a  blood-and-thunder 
play,  as  he  said  incisively  :  — 

"It  is  either  that  or  your  ruin.     Choose." 

"  You  are  an  infamous  scoundrel,"  cried  Bourland,  fling 
ing  the  words  like  a  glove  in  his  face.  "  I  am  ashamed  to 
think  that  I  have  tolerated  you  in  my  house.  You  insult 
me,  first  with  your  criminal  proposition,  and  then  you 
dare  to  suggest  a  thing  that  would  bring  my  wife  and  my 
sister  down  to  your  nigger  level." 

"  Take  care,  damn  you  !  "  The  satanic  personality 
showed  in  his  teeth  and  in  the  hiss  that  came  through 
them.  "  Take  care  !  Take  back  those  words,  or  I'll  put 
you  in  the  chain  gang."  Bourland  had  touched  the  sore 
point.  The  mask  of  the  suave  politician  was  off,  disclosing 
the  infuriated  devil  of  hate. 

"  I  say  you  are  a  low-lived  scoundrel,"  repeated  Bourland, 
slowly,  and  each  word  was  as  the  lash  of  a  raw-hide  whip. 

"  You  insulted  me,  down  there  in  the  road,  right  before 
your  niggers.  And  when  I  went  away,  I  swore  I'd  hum 
ble  you  before  I  got  through,  and  I'll  do  it ;  by  God,  I 
will  !  I  will  —  by  God  !  "  The  oath  was  registered  in 
the  shrill  pitch  of  a  steam  whistle. 

Bourland  raised  his  hand,  and  pointed  to  the  door. 
He  was  self -mastered  again. 

"I'll  go  now,"  Parker  raged  on.  "It's  your  house  at 
present.  But  it  will  be  mine  some  day.  Then  I'll  drive 
you  away  just  like  a  ragged  tramp.  Look  here  !  " 

He  took  from  his  pocket  a  paper  and  flung  it  open. 

"  There's  one  of  your  mortgages.  I  bought  it  with  more 
good  money  than  you  will  ever  own.  That's  for  a  starter. 
I'll  be  master  here  some  day,  of  land  and  house  too." 

Bourland,  with  no  thought  of  retraction,  still  held  his 
position  and  pointed  toward  the  door. 

But  Parker  did  not  go  without  one  more  fulmination  of 
hatred.  He  shook  his  fist  at  a  safe  distance,  disgorging 
his  words  in  sputters.  "  You  damned  aristocrats  with 
your  proud  names,  we  are  going  to  drive  you  out  and 


176  HENKY   BOUKLAND 

make  beggars  of  you.  We'll  sell  you  out  under  the 
sheriff's  hammer.  We'll  stuff  your  salt-of-the-earth  pride 
down  your  gullets,  and  you'll  be  glad  to  feed  with  hogs. 
You'll  show  me  the  door,  will  you  ?  May  I  burn  in  hell 
if  I  don't  send  you  and  your  family  to  a  place  where  there 
is  no  door.  You  mark  me,  and  wait.  I'll  never  let  up 
until  I  get  you  under  my  feet  and  spit  on  you." 

But  Bourland,  resolute  in  his  pride  and  haughty  con 
tempt,  would  say  nothing  further.  He  went  to  the  door 
and  opened  ito 

Parker,  overwhelmed  by  an  impulse,  tried  to  strike  him 
as  he  went  out.  Bourland  warded  the  blow  by  closing  the 
door  and  pushing  the  man  out. 

Parker  descended  the  steps,  stumbling  and  swearing 
versatile  oaths. 


CHAPTER   XXII 

BY   THE   FIRESIDE 

DECEMBER  came,  bringing  a  cold,  winter  sunshine  of 
gladness  into  the  Hall.  Margaret  apparently  had  re 
covered  her  strength,  and  the  brave  little  woman,  at  last 
victorious  in  the  long,  slow,  patient  battle,  was  able  to 
come  downstairs  again. 

After  the  strain  of  the  prostration,  she  looked  as  frail  as 
a  white  angel.  But  when  Henry  led  her  into  the  library, 
and  placed  her  in  a  great  arm-chair  before  the  wood  fire, 
the  flames,  roaring  a  joyous  greeting,  tinged  her  cheeks 
with  faint  touches  of  carmine,  and  drew  warm  sparkles 
from  the  tender  glimmer  of  her  eyes. 

The  evening  seemed  like  a  return  of  the  honeymoon. 
The  rapture  that  comes  with  the  sight  of  a  precious  thing, 
possessed  in  full  title  at  last,  took  them  back  to  the  dear 
days  of  first  confessions.  They  had  been  husband  and 
wife  for  two  years,  but  the  black  imp  of  disenchantment 
had  not  yet  stung  them  with  a  single  venomous  dart. 
Love  still  shielded  them  in  an  impenetrable  panoply. 

After  a  time  Henry  fell  into  a  meditation.  Margaret 
could  feel  that  a  train  of  thought  had  slipped  into  his 
mind  which  she  was  not  sharing  ;  a  sober,  mournful  train 
like  a  procession  of  dark-robed  pilgrims.  She  knew  that 
she  should  have  her  part  in  it. 

"Madge,"  he  said  at  last,  "I  do  admire  your  Yankee 
pluck  and  grit.  I  wish  I  had  more  of  it." 

"  Am  I  to  receive  another  christening  to-night  ?  "  she 
asked,  looking  toward  him  with  luminous  wonder.  "  You 
never  called  me  by  that  name  before." 

"  I  am  thinking  of  you  in  a  new  way  to-night,  as  a  little 
N  177 


178  HENRY   BOURLAND 

woman  who  may  have  to  learn  a  new  role  for  the  rest  of 

her  drama  of  life." 

"I'm  not  sure  I  like  all  these  nicknames." 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  do.    You  are  like  a  beautiful  opal,  always 

playing   out  new,  rich  colors  with  every  change  of  the 

light." 

"I  hate  inconstant  creatures." 

"It  isn't  inconstancy.  It  is  infinite  variety.  Oh,  I 
love  to  hunt  new  names  for  the  many  creatures  you  seem 
to  be,  all  in  one.  My  memory  is  a  gallery  of  rare,  price 
less  pictures.  I  close  my  eyes,  the  gloating  owner  of  my 
treasures.  I  see  Snowflake  running  across  the  lawn,  pelt 
ing  me  after  the  first  snow  fall  you  ever  saw  in  Virginia. 
I  see  Lady  Dare  dashing  down  the  roadway  on  Black 
Arrow.  I  see  the  Witch  disguised  in  pink  silk.  Don't 
you  remember  how  much  you  debated  whether  you  could 
afford  that  gown  ?  God  love  you  for  the  extravagance. 
I  see,  too,  my  Princess  Imperial  in  purple,  and  that  Seno- 
rita,  dressed  in  black,  waving  as  she  dances,  the  ends  of 
her  lace  mantilla.  I  see  Sunshine  tripping  into  the  room 
the  day  I  lay  sick  abed.  I  didn't  want  any  other  medi 
cine.  I  see  you  always  constant  as  the  north  star,  my 
Lady  Love.  I  think  of  you  when  absent  as  Sweet  Heart. 
I  murmur  the  music  of  the  name  with  my  lips.  It  always 
makes  me  feel  like  a  big,  strong,  tireless  man.  Just  think 
of  it.  I  have  married  them  all  in  one,  a  whole  harem  of 
beauties,"  he  added,  smiling.  "  I'm  as  rich  as  a  trouba 
dour's  dream." 

"  We've  forgotten  all  about  Madge,  haven't  we  ?  Poor 
girl !  She  is  left  shivering  outside  in  the  cold." 

A  December  wind  blew  shrill  blasts  in  the  night.  He 
looked  very  grave. 

"  Tell  me  about  her"  she  pleaded.  "  I  don't  know  her, 
but  I  am  sure  I  could  take  her  part  in  this  mysterious 
drama  you  speak  of." 

He  stared  at  the  crackling  flames. 

"  She  is  a  courageous  little  lady,  who  must  leave  home 
and  friends,  and  go  off  somewhere  into  the  wild  country. 
I  see  her  dressed  in  rough  chintz  and  coarse  wool ;  not  a 


BY   THE   FIRESIDE  179 

gentleman's  wife,  or  a  planter's  wife,  but  the  wife  of  an 
emigrant,  a  ruined  man,  who  has  to  begin  the  world  over 
again  with  his  bare  hands." 

She  arose,  guessing  his  intention,  and,  feeble  as  she  was, 
she  went  over  to  him,  sat  down  upon  his  knees,  and  threw 
her  arms  about  his  neck. 

"  My  brave  protector,"  she  whispered,  "  I  have  always 
been  ready  for  such  a  christening.  I  like  Madge  better 
than  all."  ' 

He  told  her  some  of  the  things  which  hitherto  he  had 
only  let  her  know  vaguely  ;  the  details  of  his  financial 
obligations,  the  real  significance  of  the  new  regime  in 
politics,  and  finally  the  enmity  and  threat  of  Parker. 

"  I  thought,"  he  continued,  "  that  there  was  a  chance  to 
fulfil  my  father's  command.  His  last  message  to  me  was 
to  stand  by  the  Hall,  and  to  restore  the  prestige  of  the 
family  name.  There  were  heavy  debts,  yet  I  thought  I 
could  pay  them  in  time.  But  affairs  are  going  to  get 
worse  and  worse,  and  it  will  not  be  long  before  the  planters 
with  their  great  estates  will  be  sold  out.  Some  have  been 
already." 

"  But  how  in  this  land  of  liberty  and  justice  can  they 
do  that,  Henry  ?  " 

"  You  mustn't  expect  liberty  and  justice  when  you  have 
been  conquered  in  a  war.  Your  conquerors  are  going  to 
look  out  for  themselves.  These  white  rascals,  the  carpet 
baggers  and  the  scalawags,  will  run  things  to  suit  them 
selves.  They  have  already  turned  the  niggers  against  us, 
and  the  niggers  have  got  the  votes  to  put  them  into 
power.  They  will  loot  the  South,  just  like  highwaymen." 

"  But  how  can  they  do  it  ?  Isn't  there  any  law  to  stop 
them?" 

"  It  is  very  simple.  They  can  do  it  legally.  They  can 
make  the  laws  to  suit  their  purposes.  They  can  fix  the 
tax  rates,  for  example,  at  any  figure.  We  white  folks  own 
all  the  land,  all  the  property.  These  blacklegs  and  the 
niggers  own  nothing.  They  will  tax  us  ;  we  shall  have  to 
pay  or  be  sold  out.  The  radical  legislators  will  get  the 
money,  and  spend  it,  appropriate  it,  steal  it,  just  as  they 


180  HENEY   BOURLAND 

wish.       You  can  see   the  scheme   beginning   to  operate 
already  all  through  the  South." 

"  But  won't  there  be  any  honest  men  among  them  ?  " 

"  Doubtless,  a  good  many.  But  in  a  democracy  a  few 
honest  men  can't  do  anything  when  their  constituency  is 
bent  on  plunder.  They  call  this  business  up  north  recon 
struction  ;  but  for  us  it  means  ruination." 

"  It's  infamous,"  cried  Margaret,  stamping  her  little  foot 
on  the  floor.  "  I'm  going  to  turn  full  rebel  this  very 
minute." 

"  Don't  do  that,  my  Yankee  lady,"  he  replied,  laughing, 
"you  are  too  late.  The  war  is  over." 

"There  are  lots  of  good  people  up  north,  dear,  who 
don't  realize  this.  If  they  did,  they  wouldn't  allow  it." 
Her  unconscious  instincts  impelled  her  to  plead  for  her 
own  people. 

"  It  isn't  the  people  so  much ;  they  don't  understand. 
It  is  the  politicians.  They  are  doing  the  dirty  work. 
And  they  must  not  expect  the  South  to  become  reconciled 
or  to  let  bygones  be  forgotten.  Oh,  Margaret  !  I  feel 
every  day  the  hatred  growing  more  intense  in  my  heart. 
When  the  war  ended,  I  didn't  feel  so  bitter  toward  the 
Yankees.  It  was  a  square  fight.  But  when  they  put 
these  niggers  over  us,  and  when  they  let  these  rascals 
make  ready  to  plunder  us  like  brigands,  while  we  have  no 
means  of  defending  ourselves,  my  blood  begins  to  fume. 
Oh !  how  can  a  white  man  who  has  got  any  respect  for 
himself  endure  this  outrage  and  this  ignominy.  We  are 
men  with  feelings  ;  we  are  not  stones." 

His  emotion  forced  him  to  his  feet.  He  paced  up  and 
down  the  room. 

"  So  you  want  to  leave,  Henry  !  You  want  to  go  West 
and  start  life  anew.  I  am  ready.  But  —  "  She  hesitated. 

"  What  is  it?  "  he  asked  eagerly. 

"  I  hate  to  have  you  run  away  from  that  scamp  Parker." 

"  Oh !  how  I  love  you  for  that !  "  he  cried  joyfully. 
"  You  make  me  feel  like  a  coward.  It  isn't  like  a  Bour- 
land  to  run  away.  If  I  should,  if  I  should  leave  the  place 
and  go  out  to  California,  or  down  into  Mexico,  where  so 


BY  THE   FIRESIDE  181 

many  have  gone  already,  I  dare  say  the  spirits  of  my 
ancestors  would  jump  out  of  their  graves,  and  catch  me  on 
the  road,  and  hang  me  for  a  deserter." 

"  Don't  you  feel  like  a  sentinel  left  on  guard  over  your 
home  ?  I  should  think  you  would." 

"  I  do.  I  don't  want  to  desert.  But  —  "  This  time  it 
was  he  who  hesitated. 

"But  for  my  sake  you  want  to  go.  You  think  that 
somewhere  else  you  might  make  a  home  for  me,  and  that 
here  you  are  only  keeping  me  on  a  sinking  ship.  That's 
it,  isn't  it?  You  don't  want  to  drag  me  down  ?  " 

He  remained  silent. 

"  Tell  me,"  she  questioned,  "  if  I  were  not  your  wife,  if 
you  were  alone  in  the  world,  should  you  leave  ?  " 

He  answered  with  reluctant  frankness. 

"No !  I  should  stay  right  here,  and  battle  it  out." 

"  Then  I  stand  between  you  and  your  duty  ?  " 

"  But  I  have  the  first  duty  to  you." 

"  No !  I  am  a  temptress,  standing  between  you  and  your 
natural  impulse,  your  first  inborn  duty." 

He  would  not  admit  it. 

"  I  want  to  see  you  sure  of  comfort.  I  can't  win  that 
for  you  here.  Besides,  here,  where  I  am  known,  we  have 
to  keep  up  a  certain  show  for  pride's  sake.  But  some 
where  else,  among  strangers,  we  could  be  just  ourselves, 
and  live  all  for  ourselves.  That  would  be  best,  Margaret," 
he  pleaded. 

"  Could  you  have  any  peace  of  spirit  when  you  knew 
you  had  run  away  from  your  post  ?  "  She  searched  him 
so  that  he  could  make  no  evasion. 

"  Not  entirely,"  he  admitted. 

"Don't  forget  your  birth,  Henry.  Remember  the 
motto  of  your  family,  Ne  oublie.  Remember  your 
father's  last  charge.  You  cannot  escape  its  obligation. 
If  you  turned  traitor  to  such  a  trust,  I  would  follow  you, 
but  I  could  not  give  you  my  full  respect.  I  am  proud  to 
be  a  cavalier's  wife,  and  I  would  not  have  him  shirk  any 
thing  for  my  comfort.  Let  us  remain,  dearest,  and  if  it 
be  God's  will,  tet  us  go  under,  doing  our  duty." 


182  HENKY   BOUKLAND 

He  gathered  her  into  his  arms  with  all  the  exultation 
of  that  day  when  he  clasped  her  as  a  bride  in  the  little 
Gettysburg  church. 

"  O  that  my  father  could  have  seen  you  and  blessed 
you,  Margaret.  It  would  have  made  him  happier  in  his 
grave." 

She  had  something  more  to  say.  Trembling  in  the 
weakness  of  her  shattered  strength,  she  reached  upward 
on  tiptoes,  and  whispered,  fearful  lest  the  walls  should 
hear,  some  sacred  secret. 

His  eyes  shone  with  a  chrism,  strangely  new. 


CHAPTER   XXIII 

PARKER   HEAPS   COALS   OF  FIRE 

A  CHRISTMAS  eve  in  old  Virginia. 

Oh  !  the  pictures  that  rush  upon  the  screen  of  memory 
to  those  who  recall  the  glorious  days  of  plenty,  of  hospi 
tality,  of  courtly  cheer. 

Then  the  great  Hall  from  the  outside  was  a  shining 
palace,  illuminated  to  the  very  attic  windows.  Within 
it  was  all  warmth  and  light  and  hubbub ;  the  walls,  fes 
tooned  with  evergreens  and  holly  ;  the  tables  heaped 
with  gifts  and  dainties  that  pander  to  the  sense  of  taste  ; 
the  chatter  and  buzz  of  hosts  and  guests  ;  the  wild  shouts 
of  the  children  at  the  festival  of  the  family  clan  ;  hilari 
ous  blind-man's  buff  ;  timid  forfeits  ;  the  patter  and 
stealth  of  hide-and-seek,  and,  when  the  youngsters  were 
driven  to  the  cover  of  bed,  the  meditative  games  at  the 
tables,  the  stately  minuet  and  the  reel ;  and,  underneath 
all  the  effervescence  of  noise  and  jollity,  the  sweetness  of 
life,  the  joy  that  passes  understanding,  the  peace  on  earth, 
the  good-will  to  men. 

But  on  this  Christmas  eve  in  1867  the  main  building  of 
the  Hall  was  as  quiet  as  a  charnel  house.  A  remnant  of 
the  clan — a  brother,  and  a  sister,  and  an  alien  little  wife  — 
sat  in  the  parlor  at  the  corners  of  a  doleful  triangle.  It 
was  the  time  to  be  merry,  and  perhaps  they  were,  in  their 
own  sad  way. 

The  god  of  hilarity  was  holding  court  somewhere,  for 
out  from  the  north  wing  came  the  "  sounds  of  revelry  by 
night,"  —  the  scraping  of  violin,  the  shuffle  of  feet  upon 
the  sanded  floor,  the  thumping  clap  of  hands,  and,  break 
ing  in  upon  these  undertones,  the  resonant  voices  of  the 

183 


184  HENKY  BOURLAND 

plantation  negroes  and  their  invited  guests,  shouting  from 
the  joy  of  the  song  and  the  dance  :  — 

"Den  fling  away  de  rake  an'  de  hoe, 

Dis  am  de  jubilee. 

De  rain  may  come,  an'  de  win'  may  blow, 
But  bless  de  Lawd,  I'se  free. 

I'se  free !  I'se  free ! 
Oh  !  bless  de  Lawd,  I'se  free. " 

"  Well,  I'm  glad  somebody  is  happy  to-night,'*  said 
Eleanor,  gasping  in  the  stress  of  a  sigh. 

"  Just  wait  until  they  get  to  the  barbecue,"  put  in  Bour- 
lancl. 

"  I  wonder  what  is  going  to  become  of  them,  these 
negroes,  in  the  future,"  murmured  Margaret.  "  They  seem 
to  have  no  aim." 

"Oh!  they  are  emancipated  now,  they  will  do  wonder 
ful  things.  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  to  see  a  negro  in  the 
White  House  before  long,"  answered  Bourland  with  a  sar 
castic  drawl. 

"  What  do  you  really  think,  Henry  ?  " 

"  I  think  they  are  in  worse  bondage  than  ever  before. 
They  are  free  of  their  masters,  but  they  are  not  free  of 
themselves,  their  worse  enemies.  The  Yankees  have  given 
them  poisonous  drugs  for  their  ills.  Real  freedom  is  not 
license  ;  it  comes  only  from  discipline  and  obedience  to 
the  higher  laws.  Who  is  the  freest  man,  the  savage  in  the 
woods  or  the  Englishman  in  London,  who  is  subject  to  a 
thousand  regulations  and  ordinances  ?  " 

"  But  they  can  be  civilized." 

"  Wait  ten,  twenty,  thirty  years  until  a  new  generation 
grows  up,  untrained  in  the  traditions  of  labor,  obedience, 
and  deference,  and,  mark  my  words,  you  will  find  them  as 
useless  and  shiftless  a  lot  of  domestic  animals  as  civilization 
ever  tolerated." 

Margaret  was  silent.  She  did  not  share  her  husband's 
pessimism  about  the  future  of  the  negro. 

"  This  sudden  emancipation  and  political  equality,  with 
out  any  discipline  and  sacrifices,"  continued  Bourland,  "  is 
a  crime  against  the  eternal  laws  and  processes  of  nature. 


PARKER   HEAPS   COALS   OF  FIRE  185 

The  slaves  should  have  been  forced  to  work  out  their 
liberty.  Then  they  would  have  become  prepared  for  its 
use.  They  don't  appreciate  it  now.  They  think  it  means 
to  do  as  they  please,  and  they  will  please  to  do  as  little  as 
they  can  and  yet  keep  from  starving.  But  this  is  no  sub 
ject  for  Christmas  eve.  Put  up  that  book,  Eleanor,  and  be 
sociable." 

The  clock  in  the  hallway  struck  eight. 

Margaret  slipped  out  of  the  room.  She  returned  with 
a  box. 

"  Here's  a  present  for  you,  Henry.  I  want  you  to  enjoy 
it  now.  You  shall  not  smoke  a  single  pipe  during  all 
Christmas  week.  I've  hid  every  one  in  the  house."  She 
handed  him  a  box  of  cigars. 

He  had  long  since  confined  himself  to  his  pipe  for 
economic  reasons.  He  took  the  gift  as  a  woman  takes  a 
present  of  jewels,  and  in  a  moment  he  was  panting  forth 
Havana  smoke  like  a  man  reclaimed  from  suffocationn. 

Then  they  exchanged  their  remembrances,  —  a  piece  of 
dress  goods,  a  pair  of  gloves,  a  scarf,  a  shawl — gifts  all 
sternly  utilitarian. 

Shades  of  the  ancestors  !  You  who  heaped  your  dear 
ones  with  luxuries  in  the  days  of  fulness  and  plenty, 
did  you  not  mutter  shame  upon  such  parsimonious  giving 
as  you  looked  down  upon  the  scene  ? 

Ah  !  but  what  forethought  and  calculations  these  gifts 
had  occasioned. 

Half  an  hour  later  a  boy  brought  in  the  last  mail.  Bour- 
land  had  sent  him  down  to  the  office,  for  he  had  entered 
into  correspondence  with  a  man  concerning  the  sale  of  the 
year's  wheat  crop,  which  was  still  stored  in  the  barn.  He 
was  anxiously  awaiting  a  reply.  He  had  some  interest 
money  to  pay  the  following  week,  and  he  was  forced  to 
sell.  The  answer  did  not  come.  But  there  was  an  un 
expected  letter  from  Bray  ton. 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Bourland,"  it  said,  "  my  husband  has  been 
taken  suddenly  ill,  and  the  doctor  says  he  has  little  chance 
of  recovery.  He  may  not  live  until  morning.  He  desires 


186  HENRY   BOURLAND 

to  see  you  on  a  matter  of  great  importance.    Will  you  not 
come  at  once? 

"  Respectfully, 

.  WILLIAM  MERTON." 


"  It  is  too  late  to  go  to-night,"  said  Margaret.  But 
Bomiand  had  already  gone  for  his  hat  and  coat.  In  ten 
minutes  he  was  urging  his  horse  over  the  crisp  snow. 

To  his  great  surprise,  when  he  reached  Merton's  house, 
he  found  the  man  and  his  wife  dressing  a  small  tree  with 
berries,  paper  angels,  and  popped  corn. 

He  showed  them  the  letter.    Of  course  it  was  disclaimed. 

"  It  must  be  some  fool's  joke,  then,"  said  Bourland. 

Merton  shook  his  head  gravely. 

"  I  fear  it  is  more  serious  than  that.  You  know  about 
these  mutterings  and  threats  of  an  insurrection  of  the 
blacks  at  Christmas  time." 

"  Oh,  nonsense  !  "  laughed  Bourland.  "  Those  same  re 
ports  went  around  this  time  last  year.  It's  an  old  wives' 
tale.  The  niggers  are  as  meek  as  lambs." 

"  You  better  stay  here  to-night,"  Merton  urged.  "  It 
looks  dangerous.  You  know  that  shooting  affair  of  yours 
has  caused  a  great  deal  of  feeling  against  you  among  the 
blacks." 

"  I'd  like  to  see  the  time  come  when  I'd  stay  indoors  for 
niggers,"  he  said  contemptuously.  "Goodnight."  And 
he  rode  away,  ill-tempered  because  he  had  been  made  the 
victim  of  some  idiot's  depraved  sense  of  humor. 

He  spurred  his  horse,  for  he  was  impatient  to  be  home 
again.  As  the  animal  galloped  up  the  pitch  on  the  other 
side  of  the  Creek  bridge,  he  jerked  it  into  a  sudden  check, 
as  if  it  were  about  to  step  from  the  brink  of  a  precipice. 

Great  God  !  His  heart  thumped  a  tattoo  in  the  painful 
vacuum  of  his  breast. 

In  the  distance  ahead  the  heavens  were  a  lurid  shining. 
Flames  burned  above  the  rim  of  the  trees.  Sparks  were 
shooting  up  into  the  cold  sky. 

He  sat  still,  dazed  for  an  instant,  and  then  uttered  a 
prolonged  cry  of  agony.  The  horse  started  again  in  the 


PARKER  HEAPS   COALS   OF  FIRE  187 

canter  of  a  loose  rein.  Bouiiand  brushed  his  eyes  to 
sweep  away  a  nightmare,  but  still  discerning  the  whirling 
riot  and  glow,  he  lashed  the  horse  to  its  top  speed. 

The  letter,  the  threatened  insurrection,  recent  incendi 
ary  fires  in  the  neighborhood,  —  quick  logic  bound  them 
into  a  chain  and  a  dire  conclusion.  The  Hall  was  burn 
ing.  Imagination  scorched  his  reason  in  a  flash  ;  he  saw 
the  horror  of  rapine,  plunder,  drunken  blacks,  and  the  two 
helpless  women  in  the  centre  of  a  pandemonium. 

He  shrieked  a  wild  curse,  shook  his  fist  at  the  stars,  and 
dashed  on  recklessly. 

As  he  approached,  he  saw  several  men  rushing  on  foot 
toward  the  house.  He  did  not  stop  to  speak  to  them. 

When  he  reached  the  entrance  of  the  maple  avenue,  he 
could  see  more  definitely.  He  gave  one  great  gasp  of 
relief.  It  was  not  the  Hall  ;  it  was  only  one  of  the 
barns. 

His  horse,  covered  with  frozen  sweat,  carried  him  into 
the  yard.  There  he  saw  a  clump  of  negroes,  prinked  up 
in  their  evening  finery,  standing  with  eyes  staring  at  the 
crackling  flames.  Several  white  men  were  busy  with  buck 
ets,  but  the  flames  were  past  all  control. 

"  Get  out  the  horses,  you  lazy  rascals,"  he  heard  a  man 
shout  to  the  negroes.  Bourland  looked  in  the  direction 
of  the  voice.  There  stood  Parker,  talking  like  a  fire 
marshal. 

Bourland  paid  no  attention  to  him.  He  saw  first  that 
Margaret  and  Eleanor  were  safe.  They  stood  in  the  edge 
of  the  glow,  wrapped  in  blankets. 

With  his  aid  and  direction,  the  horses  and  all  but  two 
of  the  cattle  were  saved.  The  whinnies  and  bello wings 
of  the  frightened  animals,  and  the  roarings  of  the  two 
poor  beasts  roasting  in  the  building,  made  wild,  cruel 
music  in  the  night  air.  It  was  the  barn  in  which  the 
wheat  crop  was  stored,  and  the  flames  smacked  their  lips 
and  gorged  their  gullets  like  a  gang  of  starvelings  let 
loose  upon  a  feast. 

"You  can't  save  it.  It  is  going  like  tinder."  It  was 
Trymier  who  spoke. 


188  HENRY  BOUELAND 

"  What's  that  blackleg  doing  here  ?  "  Bourland  asked, 
pointing  to  Parker. 

"  I  don't  know,"  Trymier  replied.  "  He's  been  acting 
very  queerly." 

There  was  a  mystery  somewhere  ;  it  hung  between  the 
decoy  letter  and  Parker's  presence.  But  where  was  the 
demonstration  and  proof  ? 

He  walked  over  to  Parker,  who  stood  well  out  of  the 
reach  and  fall  of  the  sparks. 

"  You've  done  a  good  night's  work,  haven't  you  ?  "  said 
Bourland,  eying  him  with  a  detective's  glance. 

"  I  wish  we  could  have  saved  all  the  cattle,  poor 
beasts  !  "  he  replied,  like  a  modest  hero  receiving  praise. 
"  But  the  house  was  saved,  at  any  rate.  I  suppose  you 
are  glad  of  that  ?  It  was  fortunate  that  I  got  here  so  soon. 
I  sent  men  up  on  the  roof  to  put  out  flying  sparks." 

"  Did  you  save  the  house  for  me  or  yourself  ?  "  Bour 
land  made  no  attempt  to  conceal  the  sneer. 

"  Oh  !  as  for  that,"  answered  he,  "  I'll  tell  you  very 
frankly  that  I  saved  it  for  you  first,  and  for  me  afterward. 
I'm  not  just  ready  for  it." 

"  I  suppose  you  know  that  this  burned  barn  will  help 
you  get  it  ?  "  Bourland  sought  to  draw  him  out. 

"  You  don't  mean  it.  Was  the  wheat  crop  in  it?  Wasn't 
it  insured?  That's  just  like  you  slack  Southern  folks." 
He  gave  a  low  whistle  and  fell  to  meditating. 

"  What  are  you  doing  about  my  place,  anyway  ?  "  said 
Bourland,  angrily,  at  loss  for  a  further  query. 

"  It  does  look  suspicious,  doesn't  it  ?  "  remarked  Parker 
with  a  quizzical  expression.  "  The  fact  is  I  was  on  my 
way  up  to  your  home  to  bring  you  a  Christmas  present. 
In  these  times  of  peace  on  earth  and  good-will  to  men,  I 
like  to  be  a  Santa  Glaus  myself.  I  knew  you  were  hav 
ing  hard  luck,  so  I  thought  I'd  bring  up  the  notification 
of  the  interest  money  that's  due  on  the  mortgage,  and  as 
I'm  short  of  funds,  I  thought,  if  you  could  pay  a  little  in 
advance,  I'd  make  a  good  rebate,  and  call  it  a  Christmas 
present.  That's  honest  now.  I  brought  a  signed  receipt 
for  the  amount  in  full." 


PARKEE,  HEAPS  COALS  OF  FIEE  189 

He  took  a  paper  out  of  his  wallet  to  prove  it,  and  with 
a  grim  leer,  passed  it  over  to  Bourland,  who,  after  exam- 
ing  it,  uttered  an  exclamation  of  surprise. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?  "  asked  Parker. 

Bourland  looked  at  him  triumphantly. 

"  You  make  the  "W  in  your  first  name  with  a  very  pe 
culiar  flourish,  don't  you?  A  loop  and  an  angle  in  the 

?§• 

"  Oh,  yes,  that's  an  old  trick  of  mine.  I  got  it  from  my 
grandfather's  signature  whose  name  was  also  William." 

"  Well  now,  my  man,  I've  caught  you,  and  if  there's 
any  justice  in  this  land,  I'll  have  you  behind  the  bars. 
I  can  show  you  another  W  just  like  that  precisely —  a  loop 
and  an  angle  in  the  curve."  He  opened  the  decoy  letter, 
and  showed  him  the  supposititious  signature  of  Mrs.  Will 
iam  Merton.  Parker  started  back,  as  if  dodging  a  blow  ; 
but  in  an  instant  he  recovered  his  composure.  He  took 
out  his  spectacles,  calmly  adjusted  them  to  his  nose,  and 
leaned  over  the  paper. 

"  It  is  like  mine,  isn't  it  ?  "  he  said,  bending  close  to 
examine  it. 

By  a  quick  movement  of  the  hand  he  snatched  it  from 
Bourland ;  then  he  sprang  aside,  crumpled  it  in  his  fin 
gers,  and  before  Bourland  could  recover  himself,  the 
paper  was  ablaze  in  the  flames. 

Parker  coolly  took  off  his  spectacles,  and  said,  while 
rubbing  them  with  his  handkerchief :  — 

"  Of  course  I  didn't  write  that  letter,  and  I  don't  know 
what  was  in  it.  But  the  handwriting  was  too  much  like 
mine  to  be  safe  in  the  hands  of  my  enemy;  especially 
when  he  thinks  that  it  might  send  me  to  jail." 

The  mystery  was  clear,  but  the  evidence  was  destroyed. 
The  Yankee  had  been  too  quick  for  him. 

He  stood  biting  his  lips,  but  in  spite  of  himself  his 
anger  broke.  He  raised  his  riding  whip  to  strike  the 
scoundrel.  But  Parker's  hand  caught  his  arm. 

"No,  don't  do  it.  I'd  have  to  crush  you  right  away. 
I  don't  want  to  be  forced  to  that.  I  want  to  draw  it 
out  more,  through  several  years,  perhaps.  We'll  do  it 


190  HENBY   BOUHLAND 

quietly,  as  a  piece  of  fine  art.  Really,  you  mistook  my 
motives  to-night.  I've  forgiven  you,  for  a  time,  and  I 
came  up  here  to-night  to  heap  coals  of  fire  on  your  head." 
His  face  was  a  full  smile  of  unctuous  benevolence. 

"  You  hell-hound  !  "  cried  Bourland,  raising  his  whip 
again.  "  Get  out  of  here,  or  I'll  order  my  niggers  to 
throw  you  out." 

The  smile  darkened,  yet  his  voice  retained  its  suave, 
but  only  temporary,  smoothness. 

"  What's  in  a  name  ?  "  he  said  with  a  sneer.  "  A  rose 
by  any  other  name  would  smell  as  sweet.  Well,"  and  he 
gave  a  sigh  of  pain,  "  I've  done  what  the  good  Book  says, 
I've  heaped  coals  of  fire  on  my  enemy's  head."  After 
ward  he  added  fiercely  :  "  But  wait.  That  will  never 
burn,  and  some  day  I  shall  be  its  master." 

He  pointed  toward  the  Hall,  gloomily  standing  in  the 
glow  of  the  burning  barn.  Then  he  wheeled  around  and 
walked  away,  turning  once  to  look  back  at  his  enemy  and 
to  chuckle  complacently,  "  Coals  of  fire." 


CHAPTER   XXIV 

A  LIGHT   GOES  OUT 

Two  months  pass  in  this  history  of  a  belated  cavalier, 
and  they  bring  new  trials  to  the  champion  of  a  vanishing 
ideal,  to  the  rear  guardian  of  a  departing  civilization. 

After  that  loss  by  fire,  Bourland  was  unable  to  pay  the 
claims  of  Parker's  mortgage.  It  was  promptly  foreclosed, 
the  Mill  Run  tract  came  under  the  sheriff's  hammer,  and 
passed,  after  a  formality,  into  the  possession  of  the  carpet 
bagger.  To  meet  other  obligations,  to  save  the  rest  of  his 
land,  for  without  land  he  was  utterly  helpless,  the  Hall 
itself,  hitherto  clear  in  its  title,  faced  the  humiliating 
scrutiny  of  the  money-lender ;  and  to  delay  still  further 
the  day  of  eviction  from  his  patrimon}^,  Bourland  was 
forced  to  give  the  stately  mansion  of  his  ancestors  in 
pawn. 

After  he  signed  the  papers,  he  went  home  and  lay  all 
night  in  a  sleepless  dream. 

The  Blue  Devils  of  Despair,  a  crouching,  malignant 
circle,  creeping  with  Indian  stealth  and  caution,  are  clos 
ing  around  him  now.  Nearer,  nearer,  nearer  they  crawl 
and  pause,  awaiting  the  signal  from  the  Arch  Fiend  to 
overwhelm  him. 

It  comes  amid  the  mad  riotings  of  a  February  night. 

Outside  of  the  house  the  air  is  a  vast  Cimmerian  cavern 
under  the  black  roof  of  the  sky.  Hail  flies  through  the 
air  in  swooping,  intermittent  covies,  and  batters  the  walls 
of  the  house  like  a  fusillade  of  bullets.  Down  in  the  valley 
there  are  strident  wailings.  The  gusts  and  blasts  of  wind, 
now  grappling  at  each  other's  entrails,  now  hurling  their 
allied  powers  in  unison,  tear  oft'  the  limbs  of  trees,  uproot 

191 


192  HENRY   BOUBLAHD 

ancient  trunks,  and  fling  them  prone,  like  wrestlers  in  the 
arena. 

Men  are  indoors  to-night. 

Bourland  is  pacing  the  parlor  floor  restlessly.  He  hears 
overhead  the  patter  of  light  steps,  and,  at  intervals,  sub 
dued  throes  of  pain.  In  the  room  directly  above  several 
persons  are  performing  the  prologue  to  the  drama  of  a  new 
life.  His  part  is  cast  for  a  minor  role,  and  it  is  not  yet  his 
time  to  appear  on  the  stage.  He  is  nervous,  apprehensive, 
fearful ;  often  his  breath  catches  and  chokes  him.  The 
dread  of  a  tragedy  haunts  him  —  the  dread  that  the  little 
life  within  the  life  may  demand  a  life  as  the  price  of  its 
coming. 

"  Yes,  there  is  great  danger,"  the  physician  has  told  him. 
"  But  we  shall  hope  for  the  best." 

Margaret,  in  spite  of  all  promise,  has  not  regained  her 
full  strength;  her  courage  is  there,  but  not  the  strength. 
Mother  Nature,  shattered  so  brutally  by  the  horror  of  the 
woods,  has  never  recovered  her  normal  processes.  And 
yet  she  cannot  delay  her  appointed  hour.  It  is  to  be  a 
titanic  struggle,  Bourland  well  knows,  when  this  young 
Jove,  the  first  of  a  new  dynasty,  comes  forth  from  dark 
ness  and  silence  into  the  light  of  this  strange  world. 

There  is  an  unwonted  emotion  in  Bourland's  conscious 
ness,  a  paternal  pride,  a  sense  of  full  manhood.  He  walks 
past  those  portraits  of  fathers  and  grandfathers  with  a  new 
feeling  of  kinship.  He  is  no  longer  the  end  link  —  the 
last  of  the  line. 

And  yet  premonitions  of  the  future  quench  the  radiance 
of  that  paternal  joy  into  sadness.  Where  is  the  old  glory 
and  the  inheritance  ?  They  are  passing  slowly,  irresisti 
bly,  irrevocably  into  obscurity,  —  prestige  and  patrimony 
and  opportunity.  And  the  little  newcomer,  if  he  be 
named,  must  be  christened  a  Lackland.  There  is  no  other 
legacy,  none,  except  a  noble  record  passed  down  from 
fathers  unto  sons, —  a  family  history,  — sans  peur  et  sans 
reproche. 

He  stops  before  his  gray-haired  father's  picture.  He 
stands  ;  he  folds  his  arms  ;  he  straightens  himself  up  to 


A  LIGHT   GOES   OUT  193 

an  impressive  erectness.  The  lips  in  the  picture  are 
motionless,  dumb ;  but  he  remembers  how  they  used  to 
speak,  to  smile,  to  pray.  He  recalls  their  solemn  sweet 
ness  when  they  uttered  the  phrases  of  the  sacred  Book  :  — 

"  I  have  been  young,  and  now  am  old  ;  yet  have  I 
not  seen  the  righteous  forsaken,  nor  his  seed  begging 
bread." 

Moisture  dims  the  vision  of  his  eyes. 

Unaware,  the  door  quietly  opens,  and  Eleanor  comes 
timorously  toward  him.  Her  countenance  shows  white 
fear  and  dark  red  eyes.  She  has  no  need  to  speak.  He 
reads  her  unuttered  tidings,  and  sinks  into  a  chair,  dizzy, 
faint,  cold. 

"Come  now,  Henry."  She  puts  her  arm  through  his 
and  leads  him,  as  one  leads  the  blind.  He  is  conscious 
that  the  strength  of  his  limbs  is  faltering.  He  dimly 
knows  that  he  is  ascending  the  stairs.  It  is  a  long,  hard, 
upward  climb.  Twice  he  stumbles.  He  catches  hold  of 
the  balustrade  and  feels  a  strain  in  his  arm.  At  last  he 
stops  in  front  of  a  door ;  a  knock,  a  voice,  a  silent  open 
ing,  and  from  within  low  moans  of  agony  and  a  child's 
sharp  treble. 

Eleanor  puts  her  arms  around  his  shoulders,  and  in 
a  whisper  urges  him  to  be  strong  ;  turning  away,  she 
pushes  him  over  the  threshold. 

He  sees  the  long  coat  of  the  doctor,  a  swart  blur  against 
the  wall.  At  the  other  side  of  the  room  is  a  cradle, 
tended  by  a  nurse.  Between,  on  the  bed,  lies  the  young 
mother. 

As  she  watches  him  approach,  her  eyes  grow  warm  from 
an  inward  radiance.  Her  face,  girt  with  the  lustre  of  her 
tangled  hair,  outshines  the  light  of  the  room.  She  tries 
to  smile  the  reassurance  of  a  lover's  love,  and  the  gladness 
of  a  mother's  privilege  ;  but  shattered  nerves  have  bound 
her  upon  a  harsh  rack,  and  the  smile  is  dimmed  through 
a  mist  of  lucent  tears. 

He  bends  down  and  touches  her  lips.  A  child  has 
kissed  them,  and  they  are  softer,  frailer,  tenderer  to  the 
touch  of  his  own. 


194  HENKY   BOURLAND 

41  There  are  three  of  us  now,  dear,"  she  whispers  shrink- 
ingly. 

He  brushes  the  hair  from  her  forehead,  and  they  talk 
face  to  face  their  inviolable  secrets. 

A  change  comes  over  her ;  a  film  crosses  her  sight ;  her 
head  begins  to  shake  ;  her  muscles  twitch  in  the  throes  of 
an  on-coming  spasm.  Her  body  quivers  as  under  the 
stress  of  electric  stings. 

The  doctor  hastily  draws  him  away.  He  hears  long- 
drawn  moans  and  the  anguish  of  writhing. 

"  It's  another  attack,"  says  the  physician.  "  I  feared 
it.  Be  calm,  Bourland.  We  have  no  chance  now.  Pre 
pare  for  the  worst.  I'd  rather  cut  off  my  right  arm  than 
lose  her."  He  gives  the  crazed  husband  a  strained  hand 
clasp.  "  Go  look  at  the  boy.  You  can't  help  this  brave 
little  woman." 

The  newcomer,  swaddled  in  flannels,  lies  blinking  at 
the  light.  As  the  nurse  gives  him  over  to  the  father,  his 
feelings  are  a  mingling  of  paternal  love  and  embarrass 
ment.  The  arms  that  hold  him  are  as  stiff  as  billets  of 
wood,  and  seem  grotesquely  out  of  place. 

The  diminutive  stranger  winks  and  gasps  and  wails  all 
at  once.  He  is  not  used  to  this  cold  world  with  its  glare 
and  dazzle.  He  kicks  impotent  protests  at  his  enforced 
entrance. 

The  doctor  approaches  hurriedly. 

"You  must  say  what  you  wish  now." 

The  spasm  has  passed  like  a  storm,  leaving  her  serene 
and  shining,  yet  visibly  weaker. 

"  Isn't  he  a  treasure,  Henry  ?  We  shall  have  a  little 
angel  with  us  in  the  house  now." 

She  does  not  yet  divine  that  the  dread  messenger  has 
already  crossed  the  threshold  and  stands  waiting.  She  is 
all  wrapped  in  the  gladness  of  the  future  of  the  wife  and 
mother,  two  beings  with  a  double  joy. 

Bourland  bursts  into  convulsive  sobbing.  His  ears  are 
ringing  with  the  cries  of  the  Arch  Fiend  and  his  myrmi 
dons.  He  stifles  his  anguish  against  her  bosom.  She 
understands  now.  She  hears  his  agony  as  a  call. 


A   LIGHT   GOES   OUT  195 

"  Am  I  to  die,  Doctor  ?  "  The  question  is  put  bravely. 
He  bows  his  unwilling  head. 

"  Oh  !  I  want  to  live  a  while  longer,  just  a  little  while. 
Henry,  pray  God  not  to  take  me  away  just  yet." 

The  appeal  of  those  sweet  eyes,  of  that  piteous  voice, 
would  move  anything  human  upon  earth.  Up  in  heaven 
Mercy  must  be  sleeping. 

Bourland  feels  the  last  desperation  of  her  strength  as 
she  strains  him  close  to  the  lingering  warmth  of  her 
breast.  It  is  her  voiceless  plea  to  him  for  protection. 
She  had  saved  him  on  the  battle-field.  His  day  of  return 
has  come,  but  he  cannot  save  her  now.  He  lies  there  like 
one  upon  a  cross,  yet  with  the  passionate  desire  that  the 
crucifixion  might  last  forever. 

"  Oh  !  I  cannot  let  you  go.  Margaret,  my  wife,  I  will 
not  let  you  go." 

The  rage  of  impotence  masters  him  with  an  inward 
burning.  He  clutches  her  frail  body  in  his  full  strength 
with  a  challenge  of  defiance. 

But  he  is  only  a  mere  infant  clutching  a  toy,  which 
the  inexorable  nurse  is  slowly,  surely  detaching  from 
his  grasp.  He  is  only  a  mote,  suspended  for  a  twin 
kling  of  eternity,  in  the  calm  centre  of  the  whirlwind  of 
fate. 

But  the  dear  victim  has  bent  her  desire  to  the  Incom 
prehensible  Will.  She  is  all  resignation  now. 

"If  I  must,  I  will  go." 

Yet  the  unfed  hunger  of  the  mother's  heart  still  leaves 
her  reluctant. 

"  It  is  so  hard,  Henry,"  she  murmurs,  "  to  leave  you 
and  the  little  one  just  at  his  coming.  Call  him  Randall, 
dearest,  for  my  sake,  and  tell  him,  when  he  grows  up, 
that  I  loved  him  before  I  ever  saw  him,  and  that  he  must 
love  me  even  though  he  shall  never  see  me.  And  when 
you  teach  him  his  prayers,  dearest,  won't  you  ask  him  to 
say  at  the  end,  if  only  sometimes,  '  Good  night,  mother.' 
I  shall  listen  every  night  to  hear.  Oh  !  to  think  that  all 
through  his  life  I  shall  be  nobody  to  him." 

Her  voice  quavers  ;  she  makes  an  endeavor  to  stanch 


196  HENKY   BOURLAND 

the  flow  from  her  heart's  wounds  with  the  courage  of  her 
sublime  trust.  She  has  no  fear  that  death  is  an  end. 

Bourland  has  slipped  to  his  knees  and  is  praying.  He 
offers  his  blood,  his  life,  his  soul  as  a  sacrifice  at  the  altar 
of  omnipotence,  if  only  she  may  be  spared.  She  clasps 
his  hand  while  he  prays. 

She  grows  calmer. 

In  the  silence  which  follows,  they  hear  the  clock  on  the 
mantel. 

Tick-click  !  tick-click ! 

The  moments  slip  and  drop  into  the  irrevocable  abyss. 
A  long  hour  they  watch  her,  and  wait,  still  hoping. 

But  she  is  sinking  fast. 

She  opens  her  eyes,  and  beckons  Bourland  to  draw 
down.  He  catches  the  slower  motion  of  her  heart-beats 
as  she  whispers  :  — 

"  I'm  glad,  dearest,  that  there  is  a  God.  Don't  grieve. 
There  are  mansions  prepared  for  us  in  heaven,  and  Christ 
has  gone  to  prepare  the  way."  The  sweet  peace  which 
has  made  placid  her  features  is  broken  as  she  adds 
regretfully :  — 

"  But  I  shall  be  so  lonely  there  until  you  come." 

Again  he  brushes  away  from  her  forehead  the  tangled 
hair.  He  anoints  her  cheeks,  her  eyes,  her  lips,  with  the 
tender  loyalty  of  his  devotion. 

A  short  respite  and  again  the  attack  of  the  spasm 
returns  —  the  film  across  the  sight,  the  distortion  of  the 
features,  and  the  convulsion  of  the  muscles.  As  the 
objects  of  sense  recede  from  her  consciousness,  out  of 
the  stupor  come  the  impressions  branded  on  her  mind 
in  the  past,  incoherent,  confused,  in  whispers  and  in  fear 
ful  agonies. 

"  No,  Henry  I  I'm  not  afraid  of  poverty  —  we  shall 
have  a  rose  garden,  so  don't  run  away.  What  would  the 
child  think  ?  —  I  can  go  home  alone  —  you  mind  your  own 
business  —  help  !  help  !  — go  away,  you  monster  !  " 

Her  hands  beat  the  air  fiercely  in  her  efforts  of  defence. 
Bourland  puts  his  face  down  into  the  rain  of  the  blows. 
They  are  his  last  tokens. 


A   LIGHT   GOES   OUT  197 

Her  breath  fails  and  comes  in  gasps.  She  is  suffo 
cating  inwardly.  He  encircles  her  again  with  the  last 
clasp  of  his  love.  The  struggle  ceases.  Her  face  is  com 
posed.  The  arms  lie  still  at  her  sides.  Her  eyes  are 
wide  open. 

The  little  mother  is  lonely  now  in  the  mansions  of 
heaven. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

BEATEN   DOWN 

THEY  bore  her  to  the  square  plot  beyond  the  Hall,  and 
in  the  shadow  of  the  cypress  trees  they  lowered  her,  a 
peaceful,  fearless  shining  into  the  cold  mystery  of  the 
grave. 

Then  the  lonely  man  turned  and  walked  back  to  the 
house.  For  him  the  world  seemed  to  have  come  to  an 
end;  as  if  the  doomsday,  bringing  the  closing  hours  of 
time,  had  dawned,  had  passed  away,  leaving  the  earth  a 
mere  waste  of  spent  glory,  spent  sunshine,  and  spent 
force. 

For  a  while  the  currents  of  sensation  were  dulled  before 
they  reached  his  consciousness.  He  was  scarcely  aware 
of  sound  or  motion,  and  yet,  at  every  moment,  he  was 
intensely  alive,  intensely  aware  that  he  was  a  solitary  sur 
vivor  in  the  midst  of  a  vanishing  world,  a  reluctant  strag 
gler  in  a  passing  army. 

The  night  hours  were  the  dreariest ;  •  through  the  long 
watches  he  lay,  hearing  in  the  darkness  the  beats  and 
strokes  of  the  clock,  the  lamentations  of  the  winds,  the 
creaking  of  timbers,  the  mysterious,  inhuman  sounds  that 
break  the  night  hush  of  a  vacant  house.  Sometimes  he 
slept,  and  in  sleep  he  found  a  refuge.  But  in  the  morn 
ing  he  woke  only  to  find  the  day  darker  than  the  night. 

One  afternoon,  when  winter  was  making  ready  for 
flight  amid  a  gusty  commotion,  Bourland  went  out  into 
the  air,  hoping  to  walk  himself  weary  ;  the  sense  of  phys 
ical  exhaustion  was  a  soothing  narcotic.  He  wanted  to 
get  rid  of  the  hateful  ghost  of  himself. 

Overhead  the  drifting  clouds  lowered  their  dank  cano- 

198 


BEATEN   DOWN  199 

pies  of  ashen  gray.  The  brown  skeletons  of  the  trees 
were  dripping  moisture.  All  through  the  sinuous  length 
of  the  valley  there  was  trace  of  no  living  thing,  and  in 
the  distance,  masses  of  vapor  rose  from  the  village  of 
Brayton,  like  smoke  from  a  drenched  fire.  Far  beyond, 
the  clouds  were  shifting  and  parting,  and  out  of  a  western 
shimmer  of  light  and  gold  the  winds  escaped  with  un 
bound  wings,  and  swept  over  the  land  with  the  boisterous 
joyousness  of  a  spring  prelude. 

The  faculties  of  Bourland's  brain  were  losing  their 
poise  and  balance  from  excessive  brooding.  His  present 
situation  was  the  worst  one  possible.  He  needed  a 
change  —  something,  anything  that  would  allay  the  intro 
spection  of  his  mind  and  call  forth  the  energies  of  his 
body.  But  where  could  he  find  distractions  ?  What  could 
he  do?  There  he  was,  a  gentleman's  son,  a  Confederate 
colonel,  retired  by  defeat,  and  chain-bound  to  a  great 
house  and  an  unproductive  estate.  He  knew  nothing 
about  business ;  he  was  educated  for  no  profession ;  he 
was  debarred  by  the  turn  of  events  from  a  natural  career 
in  politics.  Though  still  a  young  man,  he  was  already  a 
relic,  a  residue  of  the  social  order  that  had  been  broken 
up,  and  that  was  now  slowly  passing  into  historic  an 
tiquity.  The  bent  of  his  mind,  his  training,  the  currents 
that  stirred  in  the  under  deeps  of  his  affections  —  all  im 
pelled  him  to  cling  to  the  ideal  of  his  own  people.  The 
memorials  of  it  were  all  around  him.  And  that  ideal, 
like  the  mirage,  appeared  his  only  means  of  rescue  and 
salvation.  Like  a  member  of  the  old  guard,  under  orders, 
his  instincts  and  disciplined  affections  held  him  at  his 
post. 

But  there  was  the  future  and  the  political  gospel  of  the 
new  dispensation  !  Behold  ! 

Yes,  he  might  face  about  and  enlist  in  the  new  regime. 
It  was  quite  possible  for  him  to  do  that.  He  could  repu 
diate  his  birth,  his  family  traditions,  the  last  commission 
of  his  father.  He  could  forsake  the  honest  calling  of  a 
gentleman  planter,  and  join  the  rabble  of  carpet-baggers, 
scalawags,  negroes ;  scramble  for  place  and  spoils ;  even 


200  HENRY   BOURLAND 

shake  the  hand  of  Parker,  and  with  him  aid  in  the  glori 
ous  reconstruction  of  the  South  according  to  the  Yankee 
programme. 

Become  a  scalawag?  Repudiate  the  past?  As  he 
tramped  in  his  desperation  over  the  scenes  of  his  youth, 
recollections  of  that  past  lay  on  his  mind  like  material 
substances. 

Backward,  backward  flew  his  thoughts  to  the  sunshine, 
the  glamour,  the  irreclaimable  magic  of  childhood ;  when 
all  the  known  earth  was  his  playground ;  when  he  and 
his  comrades  went  roaming  the  hills  like  gods  together, 
careless  of  mankind ;  when  the  world  beyond  his  ken  lay 
in  the  glow  of  his  fancy,  a  fable  land,  an  unexplored 
El  Dorado,  an  unconquered  Golconda,  awaiting  his  entry 
and  possession. 

He  looked  around  him.  He  lived  again  the  raptures 
of  those  days,  —  the  boy's  wild  pleasures,  his  enchanting 
dreams,  his  sensuous  joys  which,  by  the  alchemic  refine 
ment  of  time,  had  been  transformed  into  inalienable  treas 
ures  of  the  spirit. 

Not  twenty  yards  away,  where  now  stalks  of  mullein 
covered  the  field  with  their  ugly  spines,  there,  years  ago, 
had  grown  the  patch  of  strawberries.  He  could  taste  them 
yet,  and  bite  into  their  plump  redness.  His  memory  was 
scented  with  their  delicious  aroma  like  a  jar  of  lavender. 

He  could  see  his  father,  when  the  season  made  its  first 
offering,  pouring  the  rich  cream  over  a  luscious  heap  of 
them,  and  quoting  the  invariable  words  of  praise,  "  God 
doubtless  might  have  made  a  better  berry  than  the  straw 
berry,  but  God  never  did." 

Once,  —  it  was  the  first  spring  that  saw  him  clothed  in 
the  pride  of  trousers,  —  for  some  little  service,  his  mother 
told  him  he  might  pick  a  whole  dozen  of  the  berries. 

"  A  dozen  ?     How  many  is  that,  mamma  ?  " 

She  took  his  hands,  and  counted  one  for  each  of  his 
fingers  and  two  for  his  thumbs.  "Then  one  more  for 
good  measure.  That  is  a  baker's  dozen,"  she  added. 
He  ran  down  to  the  patch,  —  barefoot  that  day  by 
special  permission,  —  and  he  trod  carefully  along  the  fur- 


BEATEN   DOWN  201 

rows,  peering  under  the  leaves  for  the  largest  nuggets  of 
sweetness.  He  put  them  in  his  hat,  big  as  walnuts,  red  as 
poppies,  sweet  as  honey ;  and  when  he  had  counted  an 
honest  count,  one  for  each  finger,  two  for  each  thumb, 
and  one  for  the  baker's  good  measure,  he  ran  back  to  the 
spring  house,  washed  off  the  sand,  and  ate  them  under  the 
maples,  two  big  bites  to  each  berry. 

That  feast  was  a  rubric  on  the  page  of  his  unwritten 
biography. 

Over  toward  the  left,  in  the  shade  of  the  willows,  was 
the  pond,  drying  and  choking  with  weeds  and  rushes  and 
slime.  It  appeared  smaller  now  to  his  elevated  man's 
eyes,  much  smaller  than  in  those  days  when  he  and  Tom 
Weston  launched  on  its  tempestuous  waters  the  frigates 
and  seventy -fours  of  the  American  navy.  Poor  Tom ! 
He  fell  at  Antietam.  Bourland  had  reached  him  just  in 
time  for  his  last  words  ;  "  Good-by,  old  fellow.  It  might 
as  well  be  to-day  as  to-morrow.  Write  home  and  tell  the 
folks  I  wasn't  afraid  to  go." 

As  he  turned  toward  the  pond  now,  he  could  see  the 
phantom  comrade  on  the  opposite  bank,  beside  a  pile  of 
gathered  stones,  making  ready  for  the  naval  duel  between 
the  Bonliomme  Richard  and  the  Serapis,  which  lay  peace 
fully  drifting  in  the  wind. 

"  Ready  ?     Let  go  !  " 

And  the  air  whizzed  with  missiles  until  the  British 
cruiser  struck  her  colors.  At  other  times  it  was  the 
Constitution  against  the  G-uerriere,  or  the  Chesapeake  in 
her  brave  struggle  against  the  Shannon.  "  Don't  give  up 
the  ship,"  Bourland  would  cry  in  his  sorest  plight,  where 
upon  Tom  would  hurl  his  British  rocks  and  stones  with 
greater  zeal  at  the  ill-fated  vessel. 

And  when  they  tired  of  fighting  by  sea,  they  fought 
over  the  battles  by  land,  now  joining  forces  and  moving 
against  an  imaginary  foe.  For  Tom  vowed  he  had  done 
enough  dirty  work  in  upholding  the  Union  Jack  by  sea, 
and  he  wouldn't  be  a  Britisher  on  land.  So  they  played 
Swamp-Fox  Marion  and  Morgan,  harassing  the  hated 
Tarleton  without  let-up  ;  they  defended  Fort  Moultrie 


202  HENRY   BOURLAND 

against  an  imaginary  fleet,  Sergeant  Jasper  leaping  from 
the  embrasure  and  planting  on  the  ramparts  the  fallen 
flag,  while  the  garrison  cheered  his  audacity.  Then,  after 
a  series  of  campaigns,  they  besieged  Yorktown.  Here 
they  pressed  a  young  darky  into  service  and  forced  him 
to  impersonate  Lord  Cornwallis,  who  (stick  in  hand)  sur 
rendered  his  sword  and  gave  up  the  hopeless  hope  of 
subduing  the  colonists.  And  after  the  war  was  over, 
Washington  and  Lafayette  shook  hands  before  the  victo 
rious  army  and  went  off  whistling. 

Whistling  !  Would  he  ever  forget  the  day  when  he 
first  accomplished  that  ambition.  He  had  long  been 
envious  of  Black  Pete's  skill  in  the  art,  and  he  vowed 
he  would  learn.  So  one  afternoon  he  hid  himself  in  a 
clump  of  alders,  and  puffed  and  puffed,  puckering  his 
face  into  all  sorts  of  mows  and  grimaces,  and  pumping  the 
air  with  his  cheeks  like  a  bellows  until  his  throat  was  dry 
and  his  head  was  dizzy.  Then  unexpectedly  a  shrill  tone 
came.  Eureka  !  In  half  an  hour  he  was  walking  up  the 
road  warbling  the  "  Mocking  Bird,"  and  shying  exultant 
stones  like  the  veriest  ragamuffin  of  the  woods.  No  Roman 
general  ever  went  home  in  greater  triumph.  He  whistled 
that  evening  at  the  supper  table  until  his  father  threatened 
to  send  him  out  of  the  room.  The  threat  quenched  him, 
for  he  had  already  smelled  the  smell  of  Lucy-popovers  in 
the  kitchen.  But  he  lay  long  awake  whistling  in  bed  that 
night,  until  he  awoke  baby  Eleanor,  and  his  mother  ordered 
him  to  stop. 

Baby  Eleanor  !  She  soon  grew  large  enough  to  be  a 
companion.  He  could  feel  yet  the  touch  of  her  dainty 
arms  against  his  shoulders  as  she  tiptoed  to  kiss  him 
gracefully  when,  for  the  first  time,  he  permitted  her  to 
play  squaw  to  his  Indian  chieftainship  over  on  the  land 
slide.  After  that  day  the  waxen  little  ladies  in  the  doll's 
house  knew  less  and  less  of  a  nurse's  tender  solicitude.  She 
joined  her  big  brother,  twelve  years  old,  in  the  wild  life 
out  of  doors. 

The  landslide  had  left  a  cavern  in  the  hill,  and  there, 
so  the  story  ran  among  the  negroes,  an  Indian  tribe  had 


BEATEN   DOWN  203 

built  its  campfire  (one  could  still  see  the  scorch  on  the 
rocks),  and  had  tortured  white  prisoners  at  the  stake. 

But  that  tribe  had  disappeared,  and  a  new  tribe,  which 
knew  the  zest,  yet  which  did  not  practise  the  ferocities  of 
tomahawk,  scalping-knife,  and  death  by  fire,  came  to  rule 
in  its  stead  ;  a  tribe  friendly  to  the  whites.  For  when, 
after  the  hunt,  the  young  chieftain  dragged  home  a  dead 
deer  (an  antlered  log)  and  gave  it  to  his  young  squaw  to 
dress  (peel  the  bark),  and  when  they  cooked  it  on  an  iron 
spit  over  the  glowing  embers,  when  after  the  meal  on  this 
fresh  venison  they  still  felt  the  pangs  of  hunger,  they 
scampered  over  to  the  Hall  and  dined  with  the  white 
neighbors  on  civilized  puddings  and  pies. 

How  the  years  sped  during  those  days,  dashing  with 
the  reckless  ease  of  a  mill-race  in  its  narrow  channel ; 
leaving  behind  the  glamour,  the  golden  sunshine,  the 
halcyon  radiance  of  childhood  ;  speeding  on  to  the  tortuous 
windings  of  graver  cares,  duties,  responsibilities. 

He  remembered  vividly  the  first  day  of  his  manhood.  His 
father  had  gone  with  him  to  the  top  of  a  hill,  whence,  in 
the  prospect  below,  he  could  see  the  distant  limits  of  the 
plantation,  and  the  Hall  in  the  heart  of  it.  He  could  hear 
his  father's  voice,  speaking  with  an  unwonted  yet  kindly 
solemnity  :  — 

"  Play  days  are  over  now,  my  boy.  You  have  come  to 
be  a  full  man.  There  below  you  is  your  birthright  and 
the  field  of  your  opportunity.  Keep  every  acre  of  it  in 
tact,  and  let  it  descend  to  your  son  and  your  son's  son. 
But  remember,  there  is  one  thing  that  will  make  a  man  or 
break  him  —  a  woman.  Be  careful,  Henry  !  Don't  let 
your  youthful  fancies  blind  your  best  instincts.  Make  no 
mistake.  You  can't  rectify  it  if  you  do,  in  this  life." 

That  admonition  became  the  anchor  of  his  judgment ; 
it  saved  him  once  from  drifting  on  the  shallows  of  a  dan 
gerous  shore  ;  it  saved  him  for  that  glorious  love,  that 
archetype  of  noble  and  beautiful  womanliness,  which  had 
lifted  him  out  of  the  battle  of  death,  and  taught  him, 
amid  the  animosities  of  sectional  strife,  the  ineffable 
sweetness  of  human  benevolence. 


204  HENRY   BOUKLAND 

She  had  come  to  him  like  something  sent  from  above. 
He  had  brought  her  to  the  wreck  and  ruin  of  his  Southern 
home,  when  the  shadows  of  defeat  and  despair  brooded 
upon  the  land  like  a  starless  void ;  she  had  come  clad  in 
the  radiant  whiteness  of  Hope,  bringing  the  primal  joy  of 
dawn,  and  the  strength,  the  courage,  the  promise,  that 
glowed  in  the  primitive  Eden. 

The  ground  he  now  walked  had  been  hallowed  by  the 
touch  of  her  feet ;  the  house  still  shone  with  the  lustre  of 
her  presence  ;  the  air  still  rang  with  the  vibrations  of  her 
music. 

But  she  was  gone  forever. 

He  paced  the  sullen  earth  with  bowed  head.  He  seemed 
to  be  dragging  heavy,  reluctant  weights.  In  his  helpless 
ness  he  raised  his  arms  toward  heaven  in  mute  appeal. 
Why  had  he  been  made  to  suffer  thus?  Had  he  done 
wrong  ?  Was  it  retribution  for  sin  ?  Was  he  under  the 
ban  of  Providence? 

Or  was  he  only  a  mere  pygmy,  overwhelmed  in  the  blind, 
clashing  struggle  for  the  survival  of  the  fittest ;  a  victim 
of  Nature's  relentless  sacrifices  at  the  inhuman  altar  of 
evolution,  which  demands  blood,  a  drenching  of  blood,  as 
an  offering  for  an  idea? 

He  felt  no  guilt,  no  remorse,  no  inward  accusations. 
He  had  been  beaten  in  a  heroic  defence  of  that  which 
Nature  herself  had  intrusted  to  him.  After  the  defeat, 
the  victors  had  forced  a  strange  reversal  of  Nature's 
processes  in  elevating  the  ignorant,  the  incompetent,  the 
vicious  to  the  seats  of  rule  and  power.  And  as  a  first 
result  of  this  letting  loose  of  undisciplined  savagery,  had 
come  that  brutal  horror  of  the  wood,  which,  by  its  conse 
quences,  had  robbed  him  of  his  priceless  possession. 

And  even  the  rest  must  soon  go. 

As  he  thought  of  it  all,  this  humiliating  negro  domina 
tion  and  its  results,  seen  and  foreseen,  his  nerves  quivered  ; 
his  blood,  heated  into  a  sudden  transport,  became  a  liquid 
passion.  He  grew  fierce  in  hate  with  the  hate  of  a  hun 
dred.  Oh  !  that  he  had  been  killed  in  battle. 

But  he  was  alive ;  reserved  for  a  slower  fate. 


BEATEN   DOWN  205 

And  what  should  he  do  ? 

Forsake  the  old?  Join  with  the  progressionists  of  the 
new  era?  Turn  scalawag,  and  give  the  lie  to  all  he  had 
honestly  fought  for  ?  Confess  treason,  and  as  a  repentant 
rebel  share  in  the  achievements  of  this  new  dispensation, 
this  coming  age  of  gold  ? 

He  never  once  thought  of  such  a  course  except  with 
contempt. 

No  !  his  course  was  like  that  of  the  stars.  By  the  laws 
of  his  racial  blood,  instincts,  and  traditions,  he  must  live. 
The  stars  might  grow  cold  and  expire,  but  they  could  not 
break  their  appointed  laws  nor  swerve  from  their  natural 
orbits. 

No  !  he  would  stand  as  the  Roman  sentinel  stood  at  his 
watch  when  Vesuvius  poured  her  streaming  tide  of  fire 
upon  the  doomed  cities  at  her  base.  He  would  stand  and 
perish,  like  one  of  the  guard,  unawed,  unterrified  ;  strong 
in  loyalty  and  devotion  to  his  own  type,  to  his  own  race, 
to  his  family,  to  himself. 

He  had  wandered  while  in  the  midst  of  these  meditations 
to  the  spot  where  Margaret  lay  among  his  own  people. 
He  saw  again  in  his  inward  vision  the  serene  face,  the 
white  shroud,  the  fingers  clasping  the  yellow  rose,  the  frail 
form  which  Love  had  chosen  for  his  tabernacle ;  for  the 
glory  of  his  Shekinah,  the  visible  manifestation  of  the 
divinity  of  womanhood. 

They  had  placed  a  slab  over  the  grave,  and  on  it  was  cut 
in  deep,  ineffaceable  letters,  the  record  of  his  proud  privi 
lege  and  the  pledge  of  his  unending  devotion. 

MARGARET  RANDALL  BOURLAND 

WIFE  OF 
HENRY  BOURLAND. 

DIED  1867 
AGED  27  YEARS. 


IN  LIFE,  IN  DEATH 

AND 

IN  LIFE  FORE  VERM  ORE. 


206  HENRY  BOURLAND 

He  turned  away  and  staggered  back  to  the  desolate  Hall. 

"  Yes,"  he  muttered,  "  Major  Hilton  was  right ;  and  the 
others  were  right.  There  is  no  use  to  resist.  The  best 
thing  to  do  is  to  go  into  your  house  and  shut  the  door." 

And  for  a  long  time  the  great  world  went  about  his 
business,  but  the  door  of  the  Hall  was  closed. 


BOOK  VI 
UNDER  THE  BLACK  FLAG 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

A  STRANGER   ATTENDS   A  VENDUE 

SEVERAL  years  later,  at  the  hour  of  high  noon,  a  horse 
man  rode  down  the  winding  path  that  leads  from  the 
western  foot-hills  into  Brayton. 

It  was  just  that  time  of  year  when  the  lilacs  burst  their 
purple  cloves  and  spice  the  air  with  drowsy  sweetness  ; 
when  the  dogwood  blossoms  blush,  expand  and  pale  in 
the  sun,  until,  from  a  distance,  the  trees  gleam  like  be 
lated  mounds  of  snow  ;  when  the  buttercups,  rise  and  peep 
out  of  the  grass,  tinting  the  green  fields  with  a  myriad  of 
golden  stars  ;  the  time  when  the  tanager  comes,  and  tar 
ries,  and  flits  about  in  the  sunshine,  dimming  the  glory  all 
around  him  with  his  flashings  of  scarlet  flame. 

The  stranger  rode  leisurely,  noting  with  interest  the 
signs  and  marks  of  Time's  touch  :  the  broken  palings  in 
the  fences,  the  weed -choked  gardens,  the  deserted  tene 
ments,  the  old  houses,  out  of  plumb,  repaired  clumsily  or 
not  at  all,  and  here  and  there  a  cheap  structure,  brand 
new. 

He  saw  a  few  inhabitants  in  the  streets,  moving,  when 
they  did  move,  very  slowly  and  without  lifting  their  feet 
far  from  the  ground. 

"  One  might  think  all  these  folks  down  here  had  the 

207 


208  HENRY   BOURLAND 

rheumatism,"  he  muttered.  "  They  shuffle  along  as  if  it 
were  painful  to  use  their  muscles." 

He  reached  the  centre  of  the  town.  On  the  Court  House 
green  were  a  number  of  idle  citizens.  He  counted  twenty- 
one  negroes  and  four  white  men.  As  he  approached,  he 
became  the  focal  point  of  fifty  lazily  curious  eyes. 

The  stranger,  after  inquiry  and  direction,  rode  to  the 
Old  Dominion  Hotel,  and  dismounted  before  a  half-dozen 
pipe  smokers  on  the  veranda.  He  asked  if  he  were  too  late 
for  dinner. 

"No,  sir,"  said  the  host,  rising  slowly  from  his  chair. 
"  You  are  just  in  time."  He  put  his  hand  to  his  mouth 
like  a  trumpet  and  called  out,  "  Here,  you  Jim  !  " 

A  negro  appeared  to  lead  away  the  horse. 

"  Let  him  eat  a  plenty,  but  don't  give  him  any  water 
for  fifteen  minutes,"  ordered  the  stranger. 

"  Ya-as,  s'r,"  answered  the  negro  in  a  single  syllable, 
negligent  and  nasal. 

"  Have  you  come  for  the  vendue,  sir  ? "  asked  the 
proprietor. 

"No  !  I  didn't  know  there  was  one,"  the  newcomer 
replied.  "  I'm  on  my  way  to  visit  an  old  friend,  a  Mr. 
Hewitt.  Do  you  know  him  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  indeed.  Indeed,  I  do.  He's  the  Yankee  who 
bought  Major  Hilton's  place.  A  fine  estate  that,  in  the 
early  days  ;  right  in  full  view  of  the  Hall.  Mr.  Hewitt 
is  a  perfectly  respectable  Yankee,  sir.  He  minds  his  own 
business.  I'm  glad  to  see  him  enter  my  house." 

"  They  haven't  Ku-Kluxed  him,  then,  I  judge,"  said  the 
stranger,  with  a  smile. 

"  No,  sir  ;  he  isn't  that  kind.  Besides  the  Klan  hasn't 
appeared  in  this  neighborhood.  But  Mr.  Hewitt's  safe 
enough.  He  lets  politics  alone.  Let  me  conduct  you  into 
the  dining-room,"  said  the  host,  with  a  ceremonious  sweep 
of  his  hand,  "  Mr. " 

"  Anderson,"  supplied  the  other.  "  I  hope  you're  well 
stocked,  for  I'm  wolf  hungry.  I've  been  riding  since 
daylight." 

Anderson  entered,  and,  without  speaking  to  the  three 


A   STRANGER   ATTENDS  A  YENDUE          209 

men  already  at  the  table,  he  fell  to  without  regard  for  the 
niceties  of  deportment. 

When  his  hunger  was  half  satisfied,  he  became  aware 
that  the  others  were  talking  of  the  vendue. 

"  How  much  did  you  say  the  mortgage  was  ?  "  asked  a 
man  with  a  scrubby  beard. 

"  Twenty  thousand  dollars,"  answered  a  man  with  a  gray 
mustache. 

"  I  don't  believe  it  will  bring  more  than  a  quarter  of 
that." 

"  Oh,  yes,  it  will  ;  for  there  are  two  fellows  here  who 
want  it  bad  enough  to  cut  each  other's  throats.  Clayton 
has  got  bags  of  money,  now.  He  made  it  buying  up  jewels 
during  the  war.  He  says  he's  going  to  have  that  land. 
And  Parker — they've  had  a  spat,  I  believe  —  vows  if  he 
does  get  it,  he  will  pay  the  devil's  price." 

"  Parker  has  got  the  other  tract,  hasn't  he  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  he's  the  craftiest  scoundrel  in  this  county." 

"  The  other  one  is  a  good  knave  to  his  king  suit." 

"  Well,"  answered  the  holder  of  the  mortgage,  "  I  don't 
care  what  they  are,  so  long  as  they  bid  up  the  price.  If  I 
can  get  eight  thousand  out  of  it,  I  won't  lose  much.  I 
bought  the  paper  cheap." 

"  It's  carpet-bagger  against  scalawag,  and  the  colonel 
is  bound  to  lose  either  way.  That's  the  last  of  the  estate, 
I  reckon  —  nothing  left  but  a  snatch  of  land  around  Bour- 
land  Hall.  The  poor  colonel  !  I'm  sorry  for  him." 

Anderson  stopped  his  dining  when  he  heard  the  name. 
"  Bless  my  stars,"  he  muttered.  "  I  wonder  if  I  heard 
right.  Bourland  Hall?  Why,  it  was  a  Bourland  who 
married  my  cousin,  Margaret  Randall,  or  else  I'm  much 
mistaken.  Who  is  this  Colonel  Bourland,  gentlemen,  may 
I  ask  ?  "  he  said,  turning  to  the  speakers. 

"  He  belongs  to  one  of  our  first  families,  sir.  He  is  one 
of  the  surviving  heroes  of  Pickett's  charge,  than  which  no 
more  heroic  deed  is  recorded  in  the  annals  of  history.  I 
presume  you  are  from  the  North,  sir,"  said  one,  he  with 
the  gray  mustache. 

"  The  very  same  man,"  said  Anderson,  half  aloud. 


210  HENRY   BOURLAND 

"  Do  you  know  him,  sir  ?  " 

44  No,  I  have  never  met  him.     I  know  of  him." 

"  Then  you  know  nothing  to  his  discredit,  sir,  I  dare 
affirm.  It  grieves  me  to  the  heart  to  find  myself  forced 
to  foreclose  this  mortgage.  I  have  twice  extended  the 
time,  but  the  colonel  assures  me  he  will  be  less  able  to 
meet  his  obligation  a  year  hence,  and  he  has  requested  me 
now  to  finish  the  matter,  and  have  the  agony  done  with. 
It  is  a  sad  spectacle  to  see  our  first  families  driven  out  of 
their  ancestral  homes.  But  it  can't  be  helped,  sir.  We 
are  caught  in  the  toils  of  fate,  and  the  vampires  are  feed 
ing  on  our  vitals." 

"  There's  many  a  good  man  gone  under  these  last  few 
years,"  put  in  the  third  guest.  "There's  Major  Hilton 
now.  He's  gone,  and  his  widow,  I  understand,  keeps  a 
trimming  store  in  Lynchburg." 

"  Will  Bourland  attend  this  sale  ?  "  asked  Anderson. 

"  Not  he  !  He  wouldn't  show  his  face  in  town  to-day 
to  save  his  right  hand.  He  comes  of  a  proud  stock,  and 
he  couldn't  endure  it." 

Anderson  determined  to  attend  this  vendue.  He  had 
heard  much  of  these  forced  sales,  which,  in  the  last  few 
years,  had  been  depriving  the  old  families  of  the  South 
of  their  landed  inheritances. 

At  three  o'clock  he  went  to  the  court-house.  A 
small  crowd  of  natives  and  visitors,  attracted  by  the  pros 
pect  of  bargains  in  real  estate,  had  come  to  make  invest 
ments,  to  buy  in  cheap  properties,  or  to  look  on. 

"That  must  be  Clayton,"  said  Anderson  to  himself, 
regarding  a  man  who  was  walking  nervously  up  arid 
down.  "  Got  rich,  eh,  by  buying  up  plate  and  jewels 
from  impoverished  aristocrats  ?  Well,  he  looks  it ;  an 
out-and-out  shark." 

A  bystander  pointed  Parker  out  to  him.  He  was  sit 
ting  under  a  tree  contentedly  smoking  and  following  the 
motions  of  Clayton  with  an  amused  smile,  half  inward, 
half  outward.  It  was  the  same  Parker,  with  the  external 
respectability,  the  undertaker's  gloss,  and  the  easy  de 
meanor  of  confidence.  He  was  now  a  judge  in  the 
county  court. 


A   STRANGER   ATTENDS   A   VENDUE          211 

Anderson  walked  up  to  him. 

"  I  believe  a  part  of  the  Bourland  estate  is  to  be  sold 
this  afternoon,"  he  remarked  casually. 

"Maybe  so,"  answered  Parker.  "If  there's  anybody 
who  wants  to  buy  it.  Are  you  interested  in  the  pur 
chase  ?  "  He  shifted  his  position  in  the  chair.  "  Money's 
very  tight  around  here,"  he  added. 

"  Aren't  you  going  to  bid  for  it  ?  " 

"Well,  I  may  take  a  hand  if  the  thing  goes  off  dirt 
cheap,"  he  replied,  gazing  nonchalantly  at  nothing.  "  I 
might  as  well.  I  own  most  of  the  estate  already." 

"  Is  Mr.  Bourland  about  here  ?  "  asked  Anderson. 

"  Eh  !  The  old  dragon  !  Oh,  no  !  he's  up  in  his  den 
snorting.  But  he  won't  be  there  much  longer,  for  some 
body  is  going  to  smoke  him  out." 

Just  then  the  sheriff  mounted  the  stand,  the  crier  rang 
his  bell,  and  the  auctioneer  pounded  with  his  hammer  for 
attention. 

A  clerk  read  off  the  items,  some  minor  properties  in 
the  vicinity,  and  they  were  quickly  disposed  of.  The 
Bourland  sale  came  as  the  climax. 

"  Now,  gentlemen,"  called  out  the  auctioneer,  "  we  offer 
for  sale  the  finest  piece  of  land  in  Virginia,  nine  hundred 
acres  along  Lacamac  Creek,  arable,  fertile,  within  short 
reach  of  the  railroad.  It  will  make  a  dozen  fine  farms. 
The  land  has  been  held  for  generations  by  one  of  the 
F.  F.  V.'s.  It  is  historic  ground,  and  only  the  necessities 
of  the  times  have  prevailed  on  the  present  owner  to  part 
with  it.  Who  makes  the  first  offer  ?  " 

For  a  moment  there  was  no  response. 

"  What,  men  ?  "  cried  the  auctioneer.  "  The  Bourland 
estate  worth  nothing  ?  The  land  that  has  been  conse 
crated  by  the  aristocratic  feet  of  a  great  family  ?  "  He 
spoke  with  a  sneer,  for  he  was  an  alien. 

"  You  shut  up,  or  talk  respectful  of  your  betters," 
called  a  man  out  of  the  crowd. 

Parker  stopped  all  acrimony  by  a  prompt  bid  of  five 
thousand  dollars. 

"  Six  thousand,"  called  Clayton. 


212  HENRY  BOURLAND 

Then  the  two  men  began  to  run  each  other  up. 

"See  here,  Clayton,  what  are  you  up  to?  You  are  only 
putting  money  in  another's  pocket.  I'm  going  to  have 
that  land,"  said  Parker,  with  flat  assertiveness. 

"  Oh  !  you  are,  are  you  ?  Well,  so  am  I.  I've  had  a 
grudge  against  that  family  for  years,  and  now  I'm  going 
to  settle  the  score.  I'm  going  to  have  that  land  and  the 
Hall,  too." 

"  All  right,  then,"  cried  Parker,  savagely.  "  But  you'll 
pay  smash  for  it !  Ten  thousand,"  he  yelled  to  the 
seller. 

"  Eleven  thousand,"  quickly  replied  Clayton  to  the 
challenge. 

"Eleven  thousand  five  hundred,"  responded  Parker, 
immediately. 

Some  one  approached  Clayton  and  began  to  whisper  in 
his  ear.  Parker  made  a  sign  to  the  auctioneer,  who,  tak 
ing  advantage  of  the  scalawag's  momentary  inattention, 
closed  the  sale. 

"  The  land  is  sold  to  Judge  Parker." 

Clayton  broke  out  into  an  indignant  protest,  declar 
ing  he  intended  to  bid  again,  while  his  distracter  moved 
off,  smiling. 

"  The  sale  has  been  made  to  me,"  said  Parker,  and  he 
walked  away. 

Anderson  left  the  crowd,  and  mounting  his  horse  he 
rode  down  to  the  bridge.  Following  the  directions,  after 
a  brisk  canter  of  twenty  minutes,  he  recognized  the  Hewitt 
place  in  the  distance. 

Hewitt  had  made  a  moderate  fortune  during  the  war 
by  supplying  army  shoes  to  the  government.  Loving  the 
freedom  of  country  life,  content  with  his  present  income, 
and  urged  by  the  demands  of  a  constitution  not  too 
robust,  he  had  left  his  home  in  Ohio,  and  with  his  wife 
and  three  children  had  emigrated  to  Virginia.  The  Hil 
ton  place  had  suited  his  taste  and  fancy,  and  he  had 
bought  it  for  a  fraction  of  its  former  value. 

Anderson  was  an  old  friend,  a  mining  engineer,  whom 
a  company  had  sent  down  into  Virginia  to  look  for  iron 


A   STRANGER   ATTENDS   A   VENDUE          213 

or  coal.  Having  finished  his  prospecting  tour,  he  ac 
cepted  an  invitation  to  visit  Hewitt  before  he  returned 
north. 

Their  greeting  was  more  than  cordial.  But  Anderson 
could  not  restrain  a  query,  fifteen  minutes  after  he  had 
dismounted. 

"  What  freak  notion  has  possessed  you,  old  man  ?  What 
do  you  want  to  bury  yourself  in  a  place  like  this  for  ? 
I'd  go  crazy  from  loneliness  in  two  weeks." 

"  Just  you  wait  two  weeks,  Andy,  and  you  will  be  so 
much  in  love  with  the  place  that  you  won't  want  to  leave 
it.  Wait  until  you  get  a  glimpse  of  my  strawberry 
patch.  I  got  sick  of  business  worries.  Down  here  we 
have  a  chance  to  fall  in  love  with  ourselves.  Flowers 
and  fruits  and  vegetables,  and  no  cares ;  reading,  riding, 
hunting,  and  when  you  get  to  know  them,  some  of  the 
finest  people  in  the  world  ;  here  you  have  a  chance  to 
enjoy  life." 

"  Speaking  of  fine  people,"  said  Anderson,  "  that  reminds 
me  that  I  saw  one  of  your  neighbors  sold  out  to-day." 

"I  heard  Bourland's  land  was  to  be  put  up.  Who 
bought  it?" 

"  There  were  two  fellows  after  it,  a  smug-looking  chap 
named  Parker,  and  another  fellow,  not  overclean,  called 
Clayton." 

"Which  one  got  it?" 

"Parker,  I  think  it  was." 

"  Poor  fellow  !  I  pity  this  man  Bourland.  He  was  a 
brave  Confederate  officer.  The  residents  around  here 
made  a  great  boast  of  him ;  but  he  is  going  under  slowly. 
He  made  a  hard  fight,  they  tell  me,  to  keep  up  appearances ; 
but  like  so  many  others  of  his  class,  since  the  war,  he  has 
been  between  the  devil  and  the  deep  sea.  He  married 
some  Northern  girl,  who  helped  to  pick  him  up  from  Get 
tysburg  battle-field." 

"  She  was  my  cousin,"  put  in  Anderson. 

"  You  don't  say  so,"  said  Hewitt,  with  surprise.  "Well, 
you've  got  a  poor  relation,  but  a  very  proud  and  noble  one. 
He  never  recovered  from  the  loss  of  his  wife.  He  just  sits 


214  HENRY  BOURLAND 

at  home,  and  broods  over  her  memory  and  over  the  lost 
cause,  until,  I  think,  his  mind  has  become  unhinged.  You 
wouldn't  notice  it,  though.  He  has  become  very  bitter 
against  the  North;  much  more  so  than  just  after  the  war. 
For  he  feels  very  keenly  the  disgrace  and  the  humiliation 
of  this  nigger  business.  You  must  be  careful  how  you 
speak  to  him  about  politics." 

"  How  does  he  live  ?  "  asked  Anderson. 

"  Well,  he  and  his  sister  just  manage  to  exist.  In  the 
meantime  the  taxes  and  debts  are  gradually  depriving 
him  of  all  his  land.  There  isn't  much  left  now  ;  only 
the  Hall,  a  fine  old  place.  You  must  go  see  it." 

"If  the  lands  are  so  fertile,  why  doesn't  he  get  to 
work  and  make  them  pay  ? " 

"It's  because  he  won't  do  things  except  in  the  old 
ways.  Those  folks  believe  that  manual  labor  is  degrad 
ing  to  a  white  man,  and  he  persists  in  playing  the  great 
planter  or  nothing  at  all.  He's  blind,  more  or  less,  to 
anything  new.  His  father  was  a  planter,  and  grew  corn 
and  wheat  and  tobacco,  and  he  must  do  the  same.  But 
bless  me,  a  man  can't  grow  wheat  to-day  in  Virginia  at  a 
profit.  I  advised  him  to  go  into  truck  gardening  and 
poultry  raising,  both  of  which  are  quite  lucrative  ;  but 
he  disdains  the  idea.  '  What ! '  he  said.  4  Sell  chickens  ? 
No  Bourland  ever  sold  chickens.  Turn  huckster?  No, 
sir  !  Not  I  ! '  He  won't  be  anything  but  a  planter  on 
the  grand  scale.  So  this  is  the  end  of  him,  for  they  are 
a  doomed  race.  But  he  dies  hard.  He  has  a  mania  for 
keeping  possession  of  his  estate.  He  can't  do  it.  The 
Radicals  with  the  niggers  run  the  South  nowadays,  and 
they  mean  to  push  these  old  families  from  their  very 
hearthstones." 

"  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  meet  him,"  said  Anderson, 
"  though  I  confess  that  my  relationship  is  not  very  close." 

"  Oh,  he  will  receive  you  all  right ;  only  be  careful  how 
you  touch  on  politics.  He's  got  a  little  boy,  Randall  they 
call  him,  his  mother's  family  name,  and  Bourland  and  the 
sister  are  devoted  to  him.  For  a  child  of  his  age,  he  is 
one  of  the  best-educated  youngsters  in  the  history  of 


A   STRANGER  ATTENDS   A  VENDUE          215 

secession  that  you  can  find  in  the  South.  His  aunt  drills 
it  into  him.  She  is  more  bitter  than  her  brother,  and 
you  may  not  get  a  very  cordial  greeting  from  her.  Come 
around  here  ;  you  can  get  a  good  view  of  the  place." 

He  led  Anderson  up  a  rise  of  ground,  and  there, 
through  the  trees,  they  could  see  Bourland  Hall  still 
standing  on  its  ledge  of  rock,  stanch,  isolated,  sullen, 
like  the  castle  of  some  mediaeval  baron. 


CHAPTER   XXVII 

THE   OLD   DRAGON   IN   HIS   DEN 

NATURE  was  again  doing  her  best  to  revive  the  old-time 
freshness  and  glamour  that  hovered  about  the  Hall.  The 
spring  morning;  the  avid  sun  sipping  the  dew  upon  the 
grass ;  the  myriad  flashings  of  diamond  dots ;  the  breeze 
swaying  the  violets  and  dandelions  in  shadow  and  sun 
shine  ;  the  blossoms  from  apple  and  cherry  and  quince 
sifting  downward ;  the  clear,  pure  atmosphere  with  its 
wash  of  cleansing  sweetness — they  all  came  with  the 
season  and  called  to  the  spirit  of  better  days  to  return  to 
his  old  haunt. 

The  Hall  stood  in  the  midst  of  it,  still  erect  upon  its 
foundations,  yet  changed  in  feature.  There  was  despond 
ency  upon  its  face ;  the  whiteness  of  its  lines  was  stained 
with  the  drab  of  rain  and  weather. 

The  dog,  Brand,  was  frisking  about  the  lawn,  barking 
away  for  the  mere  sake  of  the  noise,  and  chasing  squirrels 
into  the  safety  of  the  chestnut  boughs.  He  was  yelping 
his  irrepressible  delight  in  the  animal  joy  of  being  out  of 
doors. 

Suddenly  out  of  the  doorway  came  a  man,  flushed  and 
angered.  He  ran  down  the  steps,  picked  some  stones 
from  the  gravel,  and  hurled  them  viciously  at  the  innocent 
creature. 

"  Stop  your  howling,  you  cur !  "  he  shouted  with  a 
peevish  outburst  of  temper. 

The  dog  whined,  dodged  the  missiles,  and  ran  for  cover. 

"  Can't  I  find  quiet  in  my  own  house  ?  "  grumbled  the 
man.  He  put  his  hands  to  his  forehead. 

A  little  child  came  running  around  the  corner.  "  Oh, 
papa  !  Look  here  !  I've  got  a  little  bird !  He's  fallen 

216 


THE  OLD  DKAGON  IN  HIS  DEN     217 

out  of  his  nest,  and  can't  fly  !  "  His  cheeks  were  rosy ; 
his  voice  shook  with  the  sweet  excitement  of  a  strange 
discovery. 

"  Go  away  !  Let  me  alone  !  "  the  man  cried  savagely, 
without  turning  to  look. 

The  iridescence  of  the  child's  joy  flashed  out.  He 
stopped  short  with  a  burning  in  his  little  breast. 

The  man  disappeared  into  the  house. 

The  momentary  glimpse  has  shown  a  change  in  Bour- 
land's  appearance.  In  years  he  is  still  a  young  man. 
But  there  are  furrows  in  his  forehead  ;  his  face  is  sallow ; 
in  the  corners  of  his  eyes  are  haggard  shadows.  The 
joints  of  his  limbs  are  loosened ;  his  clothes  hang  lax  and 
wrinkled.  His  stature  seems  shortened  by  an  inch  or 
two;  the  lines  of  strength  are  bent.  But  beneath  the 
splenetic  ire  of  his  eyes,  one  saw  on  closer  observation  a 
certain  shyness — a  timorousness  and  self-effacement  — 
struggling  with  the  old-time  graciousness  and  courtesy  of 
manners,  and  they  brought  the  conviction  of  some  inward 
tragedy,  valiantly  concealed. 

These  years  of  inaction,  of  morbid  and  melancholy 
brooding  over  things  that  had  slipped  into  the  irreclaim 
able  gulf,  had  resulted  in  some  degeneration  of  character. 
He  was  still  the  gentleman,  the  son  of  a  cavalier.  But 
that  admirable  irritability  of  nature  which  had  made  him 
a  soldier  for  a  cause,  by  the  wear  and  tear  of  futile  resent 
ment,  and  by  the  enervating  drain  of  idleness,  had  trans 
formed  the  irritability  of  the  lion  into  that  of  the  querulous 
lynx. 

Bourland,  after  reentering  the  house,  flung  himself 
down  upon  a  lounge.  He  began  to  read,  but  in  a  moment 
tossed  the  book  across  the  room.  His  whole  nature  was 
a-quiver,  vibrating  restlessly  like  the  magnetic  needle  of 
a  binnacle. 

Suddenly  he  arose  again,  went  to  a  closet,  and  took  out 
a  brandy  bottle.  It  was  almost  empty.  He  rummaged 
about  seeking  something  else  he  could  not  find. 

"  Confound  it !  "  he  cried  with  petulance,  "  can't  I  keep 
anything  for  myself  ?  Eleanor  !  Eleanor  !  " 


218  HEKRY   BOURLAKD 

She  came  into  the  room,  but  before  she  entered  he  had 
gulped  down  the  raw  liquid  to  the  last  drops. 

Eleanor  had  borne  the  strain  of  those  years  far  better 
than  he.  The  constant  solicitude  for  the  details  of  the 
household,  the  care  for  the  physical  well-being  of  others, 
had  taken  her  out  of  herself,  had  given  her  some  relief 
from  the  corrosive  memories,  and  had  refined  and  calmed 
her  nature.  But  yet  below  the  surface  there  smouldered 
a  resentment,  more  intense  than  her  brother's,  which,  on 
occasion,  could  burst  into  passionate,  feminine  indig 
nation. 

She  put  her  cool  hands  upon  his  hot  forehead. 

"  You  have  a  bad  headache  this  morning.  I  can  count 
your  pulse  in  your  temples.  Wouldn't  you  better  lie 
down  ?  "  she  said  soothingly. 

"  No  !  "  he  retorted  sharply.  "  It's  no  use.  I  can't  get 
that  thing  out  of  my  mind.  It  kept  me  awake  all  last 
night.  Can't  you  send  Jim  down  and  let  him  find  out 
who  bought  it  ?  It  was  that  rascal  Parker,  I  suppose  ; 
damn  him." 

His  fingers  clutched  tightly  at  the  arms  of  the  chair. 

"  Why  don't  you  ride  down  yourself  ?  The  air  and  the 
exercise  will  do  you  good,"  she  suggested  with  an  affec 
tionate  tenderness. 

"  What !  "  he  exclaimed,  breaking  out  into  a  fit  of  rage, 
"  show  my  face  down  there  and  hear  everybody  say, 4  There 
goes  Bareacres  '  !  You  haven't  got  a  bit  of  sense." 

His  petulance  stung  her. 

"  Well,  don't  sit  around  here  all  day  growling  like  a 
caged  bear,"  she  answered  hotly.  "  Go,  get  into  the 
woods  where  you  belong."  She  turned  to  leave  him. 

Her  words  brought  him  to  his  senses.  A  rebuke  from 
the  long-suffering  sister  always  did,  and  his  remorse  was 
as  quick  as  his  anger. 

"  Forgive  me,  Eleanor.  Come  back.  Oh  !  how  my 
head  burns." 

She  returned  suddenly,  remorseful  too,  after  his  apology. 

"  Don't  mope  around  here,  Henry.  It  makes  you  worse. 
Get  out  into  the  air.  Go  take  Randall  for  a  tramp."  She 


THE   OLD  DKAGON   IN  HIS  DEN  219 

got  his  hat,  put  it  on  his  head,  and  almost  pushed  him  out 
the  door. 

Then  he  remembered  how  harsh  he  had  been  to  the  boy 
a  moment  before,  and  he  recalled  the  unkindness  with 
shame  and  with  a  return  of  fatherly  affection.  Randall 
had  been  as  a  candle  flame  of  light  in  that  dark  house  dur 
ing  those  dreary  years. 

He  hunted  until  he  found  the  youngster,  who,  by  this 
time,  having  forgotten  his  father's  harshness,  was  canter 
ing  in  the  roadway  on  a  broomstick  hobbyhorse. 

"  Come  here,  Little  Chap,"  the  father  called  out  kindly. 
"  Let's  go  nip  some  birds." 

To  nip,  in  the  child's  idiom,  meant  to  shoot  with  his 
wooden  quaker  gun. 

The  child  dismounted  from  the  broomstick  horse  and 
let  it  go  graze  in  the  grass.  He  ran  to  the  house  for  his 
firearm. 

They  went  down  the  arch  of  maples  —  the  boy  with  gun 
over  his  shoulder  leading  the  way,  and  the  father  following 
—  in  Indian  file. 

Bourland,  interested  in  the  child,  forgot  his  own  irrita 
tion. 

"  Sh  !  "  he  said  softly,  "  look,  Chap,  look  through  the 
fence.  There's  a  herd  of  buffaloes  down  there.  Don't  let 
them  see  you.  Get  down  on  your  hands." 

The  credulous  youngster  crawled  on  all  fours  to  the 
fence  and  peered  through. 

"  I  don't  see  them,  papa,"  he  whispered. 

"  They  have  almost  disappeared  in  that  clump  of  hazel 
bushes.  Fire  at  them  and  drive  them  out." 

The  boy  rested  his  gun  on  the  rail,  and  took  aim. 

"  Bang,"  he  shouted,  to  make  it  go  off. 

Nothing  happened,  and  the  child  was  disappointed. 

"  I'm  afraid,"  said  his  father,  inwardly  smiling,  "  that 
their  hides  are  too  tough  for  your  bird  shot.  You  will 
have  to  load  up  with  ball  next  time.  They've  gone  now. 
You  have  stampeded  them." 

So  they  rambled  on,  the  father  sharing  the  infantile 
delight  of  the  child. 


220  HENRY   BOURLAND 

Two  horsemen  were  discovered  coming  up  the  lane. 
They  proved  to  be  Mr.  Hewitt  and  his  guest. 

"  Bang,"  shouted  Randall,  pointing  his  gun  at  the 
riders. 

"I  see  your  house  is  guarded  by  militia,"  said  Mr. 
Hewitt.  "  Since  when  has  your  place  been  under  martial 
law?" 

The  father  looked  at  the  son  proudly,  and  then  answered 
the  question  by  saying,  in  a  subdued  manner,  "  He  hasn't 
much  left  to  guard,  poor  boy." 

But  the  introduction  to  Anderson  broke  in  upon  this 
melancholy  vein  of  reflection.  Bourland  received  the 
stranger  with  a  baring  of  the  head  and  with  a  dignified 
bow  of  deference. 

"  Colonel  Bourland,"  said  Anderson,  with  open-hearted 
frankness,  "I  am  a  Yankee.  I  have  come  down  into  your 
state  to  look  for  iron.  I  represent  a  company  of  men  who 
desire  honorable  gain  in  the  development  of  the  resources 
of  Virginia." 

"  Sir,"  answered  Bourland,  "  such  Yankees  are  welcome 
within  our  borders.  I  esteem  it  a  great  honor  and  privi 
lege  to  invite  you  to  share  the  hospitality  of  Bourland 
Hall." 

Anderson's  first  impression  had  been  warmed  by  the 
delightful  comradeship  of  father  and  child.  He  was 
himself  a  great  lover  of  boys,  and  he  felt  himself  drawn 
toward  his  alien  relative  through  the  child. 

At  first  Bourland  was  disposed  to  apologize  in  formal, 
infelicitous  phrases  for  his  reduced  circumstances,  adding 
now  and  then  a  vaunt  of  the  former  days  of  affluence.  But 
as  soon  as  he  learned  of  Anderson's  relation  to  his  wife,  his 
manner  changed  from  reserve  to  warm  cordiality.  He  went 
up  to  the  visitor,  with  mist  clouding  his  eyes,  and  shook  his 
hand  with  quiet  tenseness.  He  sent  Randall  on  ahead  to 
announce  their  coming,  and  insisted  upon  leading  Ander 
son's  horse  by  the  bridle.  And  yet,  beyond  a  question  or 
two  about  Anderson's  family  and  home,  he  made  no  further 
reference  to  that  relationship. 

Eleanor  was  waiting  to  receive  them. 


THE   OLD   DKAGON   IN   HIS   DEN  221 

"  This  is  Mr.  Anderson,  a  relative  of  the  Randalls,"  said 
Bourland,  introducing  the  stranger. 

"  From  the  North,  I  presume  ?  "  said  Eleanor,  with  the 
least  noticeable  trace  of  stiffness. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Anderson,  "  but  perhaps  an  immigrant 
into  the  South." 

She  scanned  him  with  no  cordiality,  and  he  felt  as  if  he 
were  standing  before  a  statue  hewn  from  marble.  Then  by 
some  insight  which  a  tragic  incident  in  his  own  past  had 
given  him,  he  seemed  to  divine  the  essence  of  her  own  sad 
history,  and  to  read  her  courage  vaguely  in  her  face.  His 
momentary  resentment  melted  into  tenderness  and  sym 
pathy. 

"  You  are  just  a  trifle  prejudiced  against  me,  aren't  you?  " 
he  asked  with  perfect  good  nature.  "  Can't  you  think  of 
me,  not  as  a  Yankee,  but  as  a  man?  " 

"  Are  Yankees  men  ?  "  she  replied,  softening  the  sar 
casm  with  banter.  "  I  mean  gentlemen  ?  "  she  added  with 
feminine  cruelty. 

"  I  won't  say,"  he  answered  with  a  generous  lack  of  um 
brage.  "  But  if  I  have  the  opportunity,  I  shall  hope  to 
expel  any  doubt  about  it  from  your  mind." 

His  courtesy  made  her  a  bit  ashamed,  and  she  sought 
for  a  defence.  "  I  mean,"  she  pursued,  while  a  rose-flush 
came  into  her  face,  "  would  gentlemen  ever  revenge  them 
selves  on  their  conquered  enemies  by  subjecting  them  to 
the  humiliation  which  we  endure  ?  " 

"  That  is  a  broad  question,  and  you  do  not  state  the 
whole  of  it.  But  I  may  say  for  myself,  that  I  do  not  be 
lieve  in  the  present  policy  toward  the  South." 

Glad  of  an  escape,  she  extended  her  hand. 

"  Then  there  is  no  reason,  if  you  think  that,  why  we 
should  not  be  good  friends." 

He  took  her  proffered  hand,  tepid,  roughened  by  drudg 
ery  to  the  harshness  of  well-worn  velvet,  and  he  held  it 
an  instant  with  increasing  respect  for  her. 

After  some  general  conversation,  Eleanor  withdrew  to 
solve  the  problem  of  a  suitable  dinner  for  a  neighbor  and 
a  visiting  relative  ;  for  Bourland  would  not  hear  of  their 


222  HENRY  BOURLAND 

leaving  until  afternoon.  Meanwhile,  Little  Chap  was 
doing  his  part  to  entertain  the  guests. 

Possessed  of  the  spirit,  so  natural  to  a  child,  of  exhib 
iting  his  accomplishments,  he  took  his  wooden  gun  and 
went  through  some  of  the  motions  of  a  drill. 

"  What  battles  have  you  been  in,  Sergeant  ? "  asked 
Anderson,  who  was  much  attracted  by  the  vigorous  mis 
chief  of  the  little  fellow. 

"  Bull  Run,"  he  answered  quickly. 

"  How  many  men  did  you  shoot  ?  " 

"  Not  many.  The  Yankees  ran  so  fast  you  couldn't  hit 
them." 

There  was  a  laugh,  and  Bourland  tried  to  quiet  this 
bumptious  tot  of  a  veteran. 

He  knew  the  events  of  the  war  like  a  catechism,  the 
names  of  the  Confederate  victories,  the  great  generals, 
and  many  of  the  campaigns.  He  had  been  well  schooled 
in  much  unwritten  history. 

Anderson's  conversation  with  Bourland  revealed  that 
the  latter  had  taken  only  a  passing  interest  in  contem 
porary  incidents.  He  had  forgotten  all  about  Black  Fri 
day  and  the  panic  in  Wall  Street.  He  knew  only  vaguely 
the  details  of  the  Virginius  affair  and  the  execution  of  her 
crew  by  the  Spaniards.  He  had,  indeed,  followed  the 
Franco-Prussian  War,  and  could  criticise  the  tactics  of  the 
armies.  He  expressed  much  sympathy  for  the  French 
and  much  disgust  for  their  stupid  emperor. 

Grant,  he  thought,  had  been  an  able  and  admirable  sol 
dier,  but  he  was  making  a  poor  president.  His  conduct 
in  the  Louisiana  imbroglio  was  a  high-handed  outrage,  and 
sure  to  bear  bitter  fruit.  As  for  the  race  battle  at  Vicks- 
burg  and  the  Hamburg  riots,  the  North  did  not  under 
stand  the  conditions,  and  its  censure  was  not  worth  notic 
ing  ;  the  whites  were  unquestionably  in  the  right.  Yes, 
he  did  admit  that  the  Ku  Klux  Klan  had  developed  atroci 
ties  ;  but  these  were  to  be  expected,  and  were  the  inevi 
table  consequence  of  "  putting  niggers  in  control  in  the 
South." 

After   dinner  Anderson  made  known   specifically  his 


THE  OLD  DRAGON  IN  HIS   DEN  223 

mining  plans.  He  wanted  to  get  the  cooperation  of  some 
of  the  prominent  Virginians,  and  he  asked  Bourland  if  he 
would  accompany  him  to  Richmond  and  make  him  ac 
quainted  with  them.  Bourland,  who  took  no  interest  in 
iron  and  coal,  offered,  however,  to  give  him  his  assistance. 

"  If  I  go,"  said  he,  "  I  shall  insist  that  you  take  a  look 
at  our  carpet-bag  legislature,  which  is  now  in  session. 
When  you  go  North,  I  want  you  to  tell  your  people  what 
you  see.  If  the  decent  folks  up  there  only  knew  what  was 
taking  place  down  here,  they  would  soon  put  a  stop  to  it. 
The  bitterness  between  the  sections  is  far  greater  now  than 
it  was  at  any  time  during  the  war.  If  the  Northern  poli 
ticians  do  not  soon  get  wisdom,  God  knows  what  will  happen 
down  here." 

When  Anderson  left,  he  took  away  with  him  the  impres 
sion  that  his  relative  was  like  some  penniless,  haughty, 
Spanish  grandee  locked  up  in  his  castle  ;  a  man  capable 
of  pouring  out  the  fulness  of  a  kindly,  kingly  nature,  yet 
by  the  force  of  circumstances  shut  off  from  the  world,  and 
turned  sour.  Too  proud  in  his  exile  to  exhibit  the  pangs 
of  his  spirit,  too  broken-hearted  to  break  the  spell  of  irreso 
lution,  he  lived  upon  the  phantasmagoria  of  a  past,  that  still 
gleamed  in  the  hushed  chambers  of  his  brain. 

Bourland  bade  his  guests  farewell  at  the  gateway,  and 
then,  while  Little  Chap  trotted  along,  holding  his  hand,  he 
walked  back  to  the  house  with  his  head  bowed  in  deep 
meditation. 

"  Oh,  look  !  papa,"  the  boy  called  out,  "  there's  a  rose 
out  already." 

Bourland  walked  over  to  the  bush.  Yes,  there  was  the 
first  rose  unfolding  its  virgin  purity  to  the  caress  of  the 
warm  air. 

44  Do  you  know  who  planted  that  bush  ? "  the  father 
asked.  The  child  did  not ;  it  was  older  than  he. 

"  It  was  your  mother,  Randall.  She  has  seemed  to  be 
very  near  us  to-day.  That  was  one  of  her  relatives  who 
was  here." 

"  I  like  him,"  said  the  child. 

"  Come,  Little  Chap ;  let  us  take  this  rose  and  put  it 


224  HENRY   BOURLAND 

on  your  mother's   grave.     I  remember  how  she  used  to 
watch  for  the  first  one  of  the  season." 

He  plucked  it  from  the  bush,  and  the  two,  hand  in 
hand,  crossed  over  to  the  plot  of  earth,  shut  in  by  the 
ivied  wall  and  the  cypress. 

They  put  it  in  a  cup  upon  the  stone.  The  rain  and  the 
lichens  had  turned  the  whiteness  of  the  slab  of  marble  to 
mottled  tints  of  gray ;  but  the  change  of  color  only  brought 
into  sharper  relief  the  name,  the  date,  and  the  graven 
pledge :  — 

IN  LIFE,  IN  DEATH 

AND 
IN  LIFE  FOREVERMORE. 

"  How  will  she  know  it's  there,  papa  ?  Who  will  waken 
her  and  tell  her  about  it  ?  "  asked  the  child,  as  they  stood 
beside  the  grave. 

"  She  isn't  down  there,"  answered  his  father.  "  She  is  up 
yonder,  far  beyond  the  sunlight." 

"  That's  where  God  is,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Little  Chap.     She  is  where  God  is." 


CHAPTER   XXVIII 

A   CABPET-BAG    LEGISLATURE   IN   SESSION 

A  WEEK  later  —  and  during  that  week  Anderson  had 
ridden  daily  over  to  the  Hall  —  the  engineer  and  Bour- 
land  started  for  Richmond. 

"  We  shall  always  be  glad  to  see  you,"  said  Eleanor,  as 
he  mounted  his  horse. 

"The  little  jewel,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  rode  away. 
"  Her  dark  days  have  brought  out  the  real  lustre  of  her 
nature."  He  wished  that  she  had  used  the  singular 
instead  of  the  plural  pronoun  in  that  farewell. 

He  thought  of  her  many,  many  times  upon  the  road,  and 
even  when  the  cares  of  business  at  Richmond  claimed  his 
attention,  he  did  not  forget  her.  He  saw  before  him  the 
sad  face,  yet  so  strong  that  it  bore  not  even  a  mute  appeal 
for  sympathy. 

Richmond  had  not  yet  recovered  from  the  storm  and 
stress  of  the  war  times.  Few  buildings  had  been  altered 
for  modern  use,  and  half  the  city,  destroyed  by  the  fire 
that  followed  the  evacuation,  still  lay  a  blackened  waste, 
watched  by  the  great  white  Capitol  on  the  hill.  As  one 
stood  on  the  ridge  of  Hollywood,  and  saw  the  shattered 
walls,  and  the  pits  filled  with  scorched  rubble,  and  above 
these,  on  the  slope  and  the  heights,  the  surviving  houses, 
the  churches,  the  Capitol,  and  the  stately  White  House  of 
Secessia,  one  felt  instinctively  that  here  was  a  suggestive 
symbol  of  the  Lost  Cause  —  the  blasted  heart  of  the 
Confederacy. 

Northern  promoters  in  those  days  were  looked  upon  with 
suspicion  ;  for  far  too  many  of  them  were  adepts  in  knavery. 
But  Anderson,  introduced  by  Bourland,  was  well  received 

Q  225 


226  HENRY   BOURLAND 

by  the  influential  Conservatives,  and  to  them  he  made 
preliminary  business  overtures.  His  plan,  —  following 
the  initiative  of  the  company  which  had  reorganized  the 
Chesapeake  and  Ohio  Railroad,  whereby  New  York  and 
Richmond  had  joined  hands  to  connect  the  great  West  with 
the  state  capital  and  the  seaports,  —  his  plan  was  to  induce 
prominent  natives  to  join  with  Northern  capitalists  in  de 
veloping  the  mineral  resources  of  Virginia. 

Before  the  war  there  existed  among  the  planters  a  blind 
and  irrational  prejudice  which  subordinated  all  interests 
to  agriculture.  They  wilfully  neglected  the  wealth  of 
coal  and  iron  beneath  the  surface,  to  cultivate,  with  far 
less  profit,  the  resources  of  the  soil.  They  had  no  imagi 
nation  for  modern  material  progress.  Bourland  inherited 
this  prejudice  with  his  estate.  His  father  had  grown  corn, 
wheat,  and  tobacco  ;  he  persisted  in  doing  the  same.  The 
mining  of  minerals,  he  thought,  was  not  altogether  respec 
table  ;  indeed,  he  looked  upon  it  as  the  work  of  ghouls  — 
a  desecration  of  the  fruitful  land.  Though  he  accompanied 
Anderson  on  his  mission,  he  had  little  interest  in  his  scheme. 

One  day  he  took  the  Northern  man  up  to  the  Capitol  to 
show  him  a  carpet-bag  legislature  at  work. 

The  Capitol  was  an  imposing  building,  a  simple,  massive 
structure  of  whitish  granite,  modelled  after  a  Corinthian 
temple  ;  the  fagade  looked  upon  the  river  and  the  low 
lands  to  the  south  of  the  James.  It  stood  in  the  midst  of 
an  extensive  green,  planted  with  oaks,  elms,  and  poplars, 
in  the  shade  of  which  scores  of  squirrels  ran  at  large,  and 
nibbled  at  the  nuts  thrown  out  by  the  idlers. 

The  sight  of  it  aroused  Bourland's  pride  and  eloquence. 

"The  Virginian  may  properly  exult  in  the  state  of 
his  nativity,"  he  said,  dressing  the  thought  in  Southern 
rhetoric.  "  She  has  been  rightly  called  the  mother  of 
presidents  and  the  school  of  great  statesmen.  There  you 
see  the  schoolhouse.  I  shall  not  weary  you  with  a  list  of 
the  great  men  who  have  made  those  halls  famous  by  their 
silver  tongues.  History  will  record  their  names  on  her 
most  glowing  pages,  and  write  their  deeds  beside  brilliant 
rubrics  with  a  golden  pen." 


A  CAKPET-BAG  LEGISLATIVE  IN   SESSION    227 

These  words,  and  others  in  the  same  strain,  impressed 
Anderson  with  a  peculiar  pathos.  The  enthusiasm  of  his 
companion,  particularly  when  he  uttered  the  names  of 
Lee  and  Jackson,  seemed  like  the  resurrection  of  some 
thing  dead  within  the  speaker's  soul.  When  he  spoke 
the  former  name,  he  took  off  his  hat,  and  walked  for  a 
moment  with  bowed  head,  and  with  a  simplicity  of  rever 
ence  for  the  beloved  commander,  recently  laid  to  his  last 
rest,  that  was  beautiful  to  see.  The  thought  that  came 
to  Anderson,  as  he  walked  beside  him  in  the  silence  of 
awe,  was  that  though  the  passion  of  a  man  for  a  maid 
may  have  all  the  full  glamour  of  romance,  the  veneration 
of  a  man  for  a  man  is  something  closer  to  the  divine. 

"  We  have  a  past,"  continued  Bourland,  "  of  which  we 
are  not  unjustly  proud,  and  we  have  memories  of  our 
leaders  in  war  and  peace  which  we  love  to  cherish.  You 
are  now  going  to  get  a  glimpse  of  the  new  order  of  things, 
graciously  granted  to  us  by  our  conquerors,  and  called 
reconstruction."  He  pointed  to  the  steps  which  led  up 
into  the  Capitol,  and  he  spoke  with  bitterness.  "  I  can 
not  think  of  what  is  going  on  in  there  without  recalling 
the  time  when  Christ  drove  the  desecrators  out  of  the 
temple.  To  a  Virginian,  who  must  endure  these  days, 
the  comparison  seems  no  irreverence." 

It  was  just  before  the  noon  hour.  A  group  of  idle 
negroes  hung  about  the  entrance,  blocking  the  passage 
way  up  the  steps.  Several  black  pedlers  were  dispens 
ing  cakes,  candies,  and  pop  beer  to  the  crowd. 

A  white  man  was  coming  out  of  the  door.  "  Why,  I 
know  this  fellow,"  remarked  Anderson  to  Bourland. 
"  Hello,  Laflin,"  he  said  as  they  met,  "  what  are  you 
doing  in  Virginia?  I  thought  you  were  Collector  of  the 
Internal  Revenue  in  South  Carolina." 

The  man  smiled  blandly,  and  replied  in  a  low  voice : 
"  So  I  was ;  but  I  collected  it.  The  claim  was  pretty 
well  worked  out  when  I  left.  I  came  up  here  to  stake  out 
another,  but  this  is  the  hell  of  a  state." 

He  sauntered  airily  down  the  steps. 

Bourland   overheard   the   remarks.     Instead   of    being 


228  HENRY  BOTOLAND 

angry,  he  looked  pleased.  "  There's  a  specimen,"  he 
said,  "a  bird  of  passage.  He  doesn't  even  bring  his 
carpet-bag." 

"  That  kind  of  bird,"  remarked  Anderson,  without  emo 
tion,  "is  very  common  up  north." 

"  We  are  not  used  to  it,"  returned  Bourland,  with  pride. 
"Before  the  war,  our  state  governments  may  have  been 
somewhat  primitive,  but  they  were  economical  and  honest. 
We  looked  up  to  the  men  of  repute,  and  put  them  in  office." 

As  they  crossed  the  threshold  of  the  door,  they  heard  a 
sound  like  the  subdued  bellow  of  a  bull. 

They  pushed  their  way  into  the  upper  chamber  of  the 
House  of  Delegates.  Bourland,  on  inquiry,  learned  the 
orator's  name  and  the  occasion  for  the  excitement. 

"  It  is  Senator  Blackberry  Dudley,  and  he  is  giving  it  to 
the  newspaper  men,"  he  told  Anderson. 

The  senator  was  a  negro  about  fifty-five  years  of  age, 
and  he  spoke  with  vehemence  and  with  a  surprising  flu 
ency,  though  the  words  which  he  attempted  to  use  were 
often  sounds  unattached  to  meanings.  The  newspapers 
of  late  had  been  printing  exact  reproductions  of  his  dialect 
and  solecisms  of  grammar,  —  in  some  instances  caricatur 
ing  his  speech  and  adding  humorous  comments.  He  was 
greatly  offended  by  them. 

"  I  jes'  axes  yoh  gemmen  f'um  de  papahs  to  treats  me 
respec'ful,"  the  speaker  was  saying.  "  Whut  I  sez  heah,  I 
sez  ez  plain  ez  any  man  ;  an'  I  doan'  want  my  oratory 
disto'ted  by  repo'tahs.  It  am  a  stigmire  on  de  honable 
pohsition  which  I  hav  de  honah  to  occupy.  I  stan'  heah 
foh  de  people,  de  suvrain  people  of  dis  constitutional  com 
monwealth,  an'  I  demands  my  stipendaries." 

"  Give  it  to  them,  Blackberry,"  called  out  a  white  man 
from  one  of  the  desks. 

"  I  refuses  to  notice  yuh,"  he  answered  with  dark  disdain. 

The  remarks  to  the  reporters  had  been  a  digression. 
He  returned  to  his  original  speech,  in  which  he  was  oppos 
ing  the  abrogation  of  the  Disability  Act,  whereby  Confed 
erates  were  debarred  from  holding  office. 

"  De  bottom  rail  am  on  de  top,  an'  we's  a-gwine  to  keep 


A  CARPET-BAG   LEGISLATURE  IN   SESSION     229 

it  dah.  De  men  who  fo't  agains'  de  flag  is  not  fit  subjecks 
fob  de  makinations  of  politics.  A  frien'  sez  to  me,  sez  be, 
4  It  is  time  to  bury  de  hatchet  and  smoke  de  peace  pipe,' 
an'  I  sez  to  him,  4  What  respectable  white  man  will  off  ah 
me  his  pipe  to  smoke  ?  '  Let  de  white  men  once  offah  de 
men  of  colah  de  pipe  of  peace,  an'  den  will  we  bury  de 
hatchet ;  but  until  dat  time  comes,  I  abjure  de  men  of  my 
race  to  be  on  de  vigilance,  an'  to  keep  de  traitors  an'  de 
factions  fum  guidin'  de  ship  of  state  into  de  pitfalls  of 
oppresshun." 

He  rambled  on  thus  for  some  time,  interrupted  by  fre 
quent  points  of  order  ;  for  the  black  legislators  were 
martinets  in  this  regard.  At  times  the  hall  was  a  babel 
of  Ethiopian  tongues.  The  white  men,  and  there  were 
quite  a  number  of  them,  did  very  little  talking.  They  let 
the  negroes  do  most  of  that ;  it  was  a  cheap  way  of  giving 
them  a  share  of  the  privileges  of  office. 

Bourland  recognized  among  the  few  Conservatives  a 
man  whom  he  knew,  and  he  introduced  him  to  Anderson. 
The  delegate  showed  them  over  the  Capitol  and  gave  them 
some  details  of  the  present  political  conditions. 

"These  fellows  will  talk  all  summer,"  said  the  man. 
"When  they  first  met,  several  years  ago,  although  the 
state  was  impoverished,  they  spent  fifty  thousand  dollars 
to  refurnish  the  house,  buying  six-hundred-dollar  clocks, 
sixty-dollar  chairs,  a  hundred-and-fifty-dollar  desks,  nine- 
dollar  spittoons.  Some  of  the  furniture  they  carried  off 
to  their  own  houses.  They  spent  three  hundred  thousand 
dollars  for  incidentals  and  gratuities.  They  appropriated 
a  hundred  thousand  dollars  for  a  bar  which  dispenses  drinks 
on  a  credit  that  really  ends  in  giving.  They  guaranteed 
and  sold  railroad  bonds  for  roads  that  will  never  be  built. 
They  passed  bills  to  support  a  militia  which  practically  runs 
the  elections." 

"  Why  don't  you  put  some  of  these  things  down  in  your 
note-book,  to  tell  the  people  up  north,  Anderson  ?  "  asked 
Bourland. 

He  did  not  reply  to  the  question  ;  he  asked,  in  turn, 
where  all  this  money  came  from. 


230  HENRY   BOURLAND 

"  Oh  ! "  said  the  delegate,  "they  issue  bonds  on  the  state, 
and  pile  up  debts  which  our  children  will  have  to  pay. 
These  bonds  sell  sometimes  for  twenty,  thirty  cents  on  the 
dollar." 

"  Can't  you  put  a  stop  to  it  ?  " 

"  How  ?  We  are  in  a  hopeless  minority  at  present. 
But  wait  a  little,"  said  the  Conservative,  "  the  thing  will 
run  its  course,  and  this  negro  domination  and  carpet-bag 
rule  will  become  so  unendurable  that  the  South  will  arise 
and  get  justice,  even  if  it  takes  a  shot-gun.  That  time  isn't 
ripe  yet.  Just  now  the  North  would  interfere,  for  the 
Ku  Klux  has  aroused  too  much  feeling.  We've  got  to 
stand  it  for  a  while." 

The  visitors  entered  the  lower  house,  where  an  angry 
discussion  was  reaching  its  climax.  The  white  leaders, 
carpet-baggers  and  scalawags,  aided  by  an  inner  coterie  of 
blacks,  were  endeavoring  to  drive  through  the  legislature 
an  omnibus  bill,  containing,  among  other  things,  provi 
sions  for  a  new  school  board,  and  a  new  regulation  for  the 
boards  of  taxation.  Some  of  the  negroes  who  had  been 
ignored  in  the  promised  appointments  were  fighting 
against  its  passage.  The  Conservative  minority  were  giv 
ing  them  aid. 

"  You  see  that  man  in  the  speaker's  chair,"  said  Bour- 
land's  friend.  "  A  few  years  ago  he  was  a  shyster  lawyer 
in  the  New  York  police  courts.  He  came  down  here 
penniless  at  the  close  of  the  war,  and  no  one  has  seen  him 
do  a  day's  work,  except  on  political  jobbery.  Yet  he  now 
lives  in  one  of  the  finest  houses  in  Richmond.  His  posi 
tion  is  worth  at  least  twenty  thousand  a  year  to  him." 

The  speaker  was  rapping  violently  with  his  gavel. 
Two  negroes  and  one  white  man  were  talking  excitedly  to 
the  accompaniment  of  menacing  gestures. 

"  It  am  eddication,  de  knowledge  of  powah,  dat  I  de 
mands  foh  my  constituents,"  cried  out  one  of  the  blacks, 
"  an'  dis  bo'd  of  commish'ners  is  to  assuah  dat  dey  gets  it." 

"And  to  do  that  you  are  going  to  tax  the  clothes  off 
the  backs  of  my  constituents,"  replied  the  Conservative. 
"  But  in  spite  of  that  I  should  vote  for  this  provision  if 


A   CARPET-BAG  LEGISLATURE   IN   SESSION     231 

there  was  one  chance  in  six  that  the  money  would  ever 
go  for  education.  It  will  never  get  halfway  to  the 
schoolhouse." 

"Does  de  gen'man  meek  an  insinuashun  agains'  de 
honah  of  de  mem'bers  of  dis  house,"  retorted  the  black, 
with  blazing  eyes. 

"  I  calls  foh  de  p'int  of  ordah,"  cried  out  another,  ris 
ing  majestically  with  his  index  finger  held  aloft. 

"  I  desiah  to  be  heard,"  spoke  out  a  venerable  negro 
with  gray,  shaggy  hair.  He  stood  like  a  Cimmerian  oracle 
in  a  peevish  mood. 

"  It  am  a  good  bill,"  he  announced.  "  It  am  a  bill  to 
relieve  de  stress  ob  de  times.  My  people  air  starvin'  foh 
the  want  of  vittles  of  de  brain.  Fum  de  darknes'  of  deir 
night  I  hears  dem  cry, '  Come  ovah  into  Macedonia  an'  help 
us.'  It  am  a  good  bill;  I  hab  work  foh  de  passage  of  it. 
But  heah  is  de  p'int  of  my  fren's  ahgument,  —  Who  is  to 
get  de  p'intments  ?  " 

"  Dat's  it,"  cried  the  chorus  at  his  back. 

"  Mr.  Speaker,"  said  a  Conservative,  "  I  move  that  this 
bill,  which  concerns  the  schools  of  our  state,  be  referred 
to  a  committee  on  orthography.  You  can't  print  it  as  it 
stands." 

"  Does  you  refer  to  de  spelling  ?  "  asked  the  would-be 
commissioner. 

The  previous  question  was  called  after  some  further 
debate.  The  question  was  put,  and  the  reading  of  the 
roll  began.  A  member  with  a  facial  angle  sharply  acuto 
voted  against  it.  He  was  set  upon  at  once  by  a  white 
man. 

"  I  thought  dat's  what  you  tole  me  las', "  he  declared. 

"No,  you  idiot,  change  it." 

"I  hab  change  my  'pinion,"  he  called  out  to  the  clerk. 
"  I  desiah  to  vote  foh  de  bill." 

Jeers  and  laughter  followed  as  the  change  was  recorded. 

The  bill  passed  finally  by  a  majority  of  four. 

"  This  is  the  surface  of  reconstruction,"  said  Bourland, 
as  they  left  the  hall.  "  It's  only  the  surface." 

44  Well,"  said  Anderson,  "  things  are  not  much  better  up 


232  HENRY  BOURLAND 

north.  These  people  are  mere  apprentices  compared  to 
Tweed  and  his  gang,  and  some  of  our  bosses  in  Ohio." 

"Yes,"  answered  Bourland ;  "but  they  are  white  men, 
and  these  are  niggers.  Just  think  of  it :  niggers  as 
policemen,  as  directors  of  schools,  as  judges  on  the 
bench.  You  don't  feel  it  as  we  do.  You  have  to  be  a 
Southerner." 

"  The  folks  up  north  look  at  it  from  the  point  of  view 
of  theory,  of  abstract  rights.  They  don't  understand  the 
question  as  a  practical  condition,"  replied  Anderson. 

"  You  mean  they  worit.  Look,"  said  he,  turning 
fiercely  upon  his  friend,  under  the  spell  of  passionate  irri 
tation,  "  WJien  the  men  of  the  North  are  willing  to  stand  by 
the  logic  of  their  theories,  when  they  will  give  their  daugh 
ters  to  black  men  in  marriage  just  as  willingly  as  to  white 
men,  then  perhaps  we  shall  have  some  respect  for  their 
arguments." 

44  Ugh  !  "  said  Anderson. 

"  There  is  a  difference,  isn't  there  ?  A  black  man  isn't 
a  white  man.  And  yet  we  have  to  endure  their  domina 
tion.  Oh,  my  friend  !  it  was  hard  enough  to  be  beaten 
in  battle  and  lay  down  your  arms,  but  this  levelling 
process — it's  like  throwing  vitriol  into  our  faces." 

They  were  standing  beside  the  massive  columns  on  the 
Capitol  loggia.  Bourland  pointed  toward  the  east. 

"Do  you  see  that  church  spire  up  on  the  hill  ?  That  is 
St.  John's  church,  and  it  was  up  there,  in  the  great  days 
of  our  history,  where  Patrick  Henry  cried  out  with  sub 
lime  courage,  '  Give  me  liberty  or  give  me  death.'  I  fear 
sometimes  that  we  Virginians  have  utterly  lost  the  cour 
age  of  our  fathers." 

He  turned  away  and  looked  sadly  at  the  James,  wind 
ing  through  the  green  lowlands  in  the  distance. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

FROM  AECADIA  TO  THE  COUNTY  JAIL 

"Now,  Mr.  Anderson,"  said  Eleanor,  coming  out  upon 
the  veranda,  "  if  you  want  to  talk  to  me,  you  will  have  to 
come  down  to  the  spring  house.  I  am  going  to  churn 
the  butter." 

The  spring  house  !  A  maid  at  the  churn  !  An  afternoon 
of  undisturbed  seclusion  with  her!  The  prospect  turned 
the  engineer  into  a  pastoral  poet,  and  brought  him  dreams 
and  visions  of  Arcadia. 

"  I  certainly  want  to  be  with  you,  and  to  help  do  the 
work,"  he  added,  jumping  up  with  eagerness. 

"  Stay  here  until  I  get  the  things  ready,"  she  replied, 
going  into  the  house. 

He  sat  down  to  rejoice  and  plan  a  campaign  ;  for  the 
Yankee,  cool,  energetic,  masterful  among  men,  had  come 
to  feel  the  timid  tremors  in  the  lady's  presence,  and  he 
knew  the  meaning  of  this  sign.  He  welcomed  the  unman 
ning  exhilaration.  It  made  him  young  again,  boyish, 
eager  to  revive  the  old  days  of  sweet  foolishness. 

He  knew,  too,  when  Bourland  in  Richmond  invited  him 
to  stop  over  at  the  Hall  on  his  way  north,  that,  if  he  ac 
cepted,  he  would  run  head  on  into  danger.  But  that  fear 
was  no  deterrent.  He  plunged  into  the  unknown,  the 
unexplored,  with  all  the  zest  of  the  Spanish  adventurer 
seeking  the  land  of  flowers  and  the  fountain  of  youth. 

He  had  been  there  five  days,  deferring  his  departure, 
and  cherishing  designs  and  emotions  that  threw  an  en 
chantment  over  the  full  range  of  visible  things. 

That  day  after  dinner  Bourland  had  excused  himself 
and  ridden  away  on  an  errand,  leaving  the  two  alone. 

An  afternoon  in  Arcadia ! 

233 


234  HENKY  BOUKLAND 

"  How  doth  the  little  busy  bee, 
Improve  each  shining  hour," 

he  murmured  softly.  He  hadn't  much  taste  for  poetry, 
but  this  verse  had  a  good,  helpful  moral. 

Eleanor  reappeared  in  the  doorway  laden  with  utensils. 
"  You  may  carry  this  bowl  and  this  bag  of  salt,"  she  said. 
"  Go  down  ahead  of  me.  I  shall  follow  you  in  a  moment." 

He  went,  hugging  the  bowl  and  the  salt  bag. 

She  came  a  few  moments  later,  bringing  the  dairy  cloths 
and  a  wooden  basin.  She  proceeded  at  once  to  business, 
rolling  up  her  sleeves  and  tying  on  her  apron.  The  com 
pression  of  the  folds  flushed  the  skin  of  her  bare  arms 
between  the  blue  veins. 

He  saw  her  through  the  haze  of  a  pastoral  idyll.  He 
wished  he  had  been  more  of  a  reader  of  poetry ;  an  apt 
quotation  would  have  helped  him. 

"  Come  now,  don't  day  dream,"  she  said  with  a  tone  of 
playful  rebuke.  "  We  have  work  to  do." 

He  continued  to  sit,  deliciously  entranced  by  the  "  we  " 
and  the  "work." 

"You  are  very  thoughtless,"  she  continued.  "You 
might  have  known  that  the  churn  must  be  washed." 

He  sprang  up  and  washed  it  clumsily.  It  was  the  old- 
fashioned  kind  of  churn,  such  as  one  sees  in  the  picture 
books  of  Mother  Goose :  a  barrel  in  the  form  of  a  trun 
cated  cone,  with  a  projecting  paddle  moving  up  and  down 
like  a  piston. 

While  he  was  cleansing  it,  she  skimmed  the  cream  from 
the  milk  pans.  Then  she  made  ready  to  pour  it  into  the 
churn. 

"  I'm  nervous,"  she  said,  seeing  the  liquid  quiver.  "  I 
have  never  made  butter  in  the  presence  of  a  gentleman 
before." 

"  You  never  looked  so  pretty  in  the  presence  of  a  gen 
tleman  before,"  he  retorted  effusively. 

She  didn't  raise  her  eyes,  but  she  replied  with  a  subdued 
decision  that,  though  she  meant  it  kindly,  made  him  twinge 
as  if  under  a  surgeon's  lancet. 

"Don't  talk  like  that,  please  —  to  me." 


FBOM  AKCADIA  TO   THE   COUNTY  JAIL     235 

The  emotion  which  came  over  him,  after  the  first  sting 
of  the  rebuke,  was  like  that  of  a  devotee  before  the  image 
of  the  Virgin  ;  the  feeling  of  awe  before  something  remote, 
inviolable. 

He  seized  the  churn  handle,  working  it  up  and  down 
with  the  regularity  of  an  automaton,  except  when  his 
petulance  gave  it  a  vicious  thump. 

The  water  trickled  from  the  spring  and  ran  down  the 
brick  channel.  It  murmured  a  plaint  of  unending  dole. 
He  became  aware  how  cool,  how  chilly,  the  atmosphere 
was.  He  studied  the  deposit  of  moisture  on  the  white 
washed  walls. 

She  leaned,  while  he  worked,  against  the  whiteness  of 
the  wall,  her  face  full  of  hopelessness,  and  calmed  by  the 
sadness  of  her  abstraction.  She  seemed  like  one  nailed 
upright  for  martyrdom.  Some  beads  of  vapor  clung  to 
stray  strands  of  her  hair,  and  a  beam  of  sunlight,  striking 
them,  flashed  out  the  iridescence  of  seed  pearls. 

He  worked  on  mechanically  —  an  engine  in  which  the 
expansive  force  of  the  steam  has  been  reduced  by  chilling. 

"  I  think,"  she  broke  out  at  last,  "  that  I  was  rude  to 
you." 

"No,"  he  answered,  looking  up,  "you  were  not  rude  at 
all." 

"  Unkind,  at  least  ?  " 

"No,  not  unkind." 

"What,  then?" 

"Cold,"  he  answered  with  the  single,  blunt  monosyl 
lable. 

"  Cold  ?  "  she  repeated  with  no  emotion.  "  I  am  always 
that." 

"  No,  not  always." 

"  When  am  I  not  ?  " 

"When  you  talk  about  the  past." 

She  was  supporting  the  burden  of  herself  with  her  arms 
upon  a  ledge  in  the  wall.  Her  face  was  bent  upward,  and 
out  of  the  depths  of  her  eyes  the  woe  of  unutterable 
emptiness  seemed  to  rise  on  slow  wings. 

He  stopped,  his  pity  and  his  chivalry  all  a-bubble.     He 


236  HENBT   BOUKLAND 

was  seized  with  the  desire  to  go  to  her,  to  take  her  in  his 
arms,  to  circle  her  face  with  a  halo  of  kisses,  and  to  offer  a 
life-long  devotion  that  would  fill  the  void  in  her  heart. 

He  stood  stock  still,  as  if  petrified  by  the  audacious 
thought. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  coming  out  of  her  revery,  "you  are 
right.  I  am  not  cold  when  I  think  of  the  past." 

She  relapsed  into  her  inwardness,  living  the  past  over 
again. 

"  Is  it  anything  you  can  tell  me?  "  he  asked  gently. 

"  No,"  she  replied,  smiling  with  the  sweetness  of  a  child 
asleep. 

"Then  I  shall  never  try  to  guess  it." 

He  went  on  churning. 

But  she  arose  and  went  over  to  him,  and  put  her  hands 
upon  his,  and  looked  into  his  face  with  a  deference  that 
grew  luminous  and  warm. 

"  I  want  to  tell  you,"  she  faltered,  "  how  much  I  respect 
you  for  that.  It  makes  you  seem  as  if  you  were  very  near 
to  me." 

She  bit  her  lips  to  check  her  feelings.  His  face  shone 
with  a  great  hope,  and  his  eyes  spoke  an  unmistakable 
inquiry.  "You  must  not  misunderstand  me.  I  mean  that 
,rou  are  very  kind  to  me,  but  that  is  all  you  ever  can 


He  took  the  full  blow  of  her  answer  without  flinching. 

"  It  is  time  to  put  in  the  salt,  isn't  it  ?  "  he  asked,  to 
relieve  the  tension,  and  he  smiled  with  a  double  meaning. 

"  Why  no,"  she  said,  glad  to  return  to  the  dairying. 
"You  don't  put  it  in  the  churn  at  all." 

She  insisted  upon  relieving  him,  and  soon  the  golden 
butter  was  floating  in  the  pale  liquid.  They  drained  it, 
kneaded  it  with  the  wooden  spoon  to  expel  the  water, 
and  then  padded  it  into  the  crockery  bowl. 

They  started  for  the  house,  leaving  Arcadia  behind  them. 

"  I  think  I  shall  go  north  to-morrow,"  he  said.  "  Do 
you  ever  want  me  to  come  back  ?  " 

"  Yes  and  no,"  she  answered  after  a  pause,  and  delaying 
each  answer.  "  Yes,  because  I  am  very  lonely,  and  you 


FROM  ARCADIA   TO   THE   COUNTY  JAIL     237 

brighten  my  life.  And  no,  because  I  can  bring  nothing 
helpful  into  yours." 

"  I  shall  come  again,"  he  declared  with  quick  decision. 

Her  look  was  glad  and  grateful,  yet  clouded  with  an 
unspoken  negative. 

"  I  shall  come  again  very  soon,"  he  repeated.  "  Forgive 
me,  a  man  must  have  his  way." 

In  the  meantime  Bourland  was  riding  into  an  unpleasant 
experience. 

Just  then  the  whole  county  was  in  a  state  of  tremendous 
excitement.  Three  days  before  there  had  been  a  race  riot 
in  Brayton,  in  which  two  men  had  been  killed  and  several 
wounded.  In  consequence  men  went  about  well  armed. 

The  difficulty  was  only  one  of  many  such  as  happened 
in  the  South  during  reconstruction  days.  The  federal 
military  having  been  withdrawn,  the  carpet-bag  govern 
ment  was  upheld,  on  occasion,  by  militia  of  its  own 
making,  and  frequently  the  troops  were  recruited  from 
negroes.  The  blacks,  unused  to  such  responsibility,  were 
often  reckless  in  the  use  of  firearms,  and  civilians  were 
in  constant  danger.  Disputes,  resulting  in  clashes,  often 
ended  with  fatal  results.  The  provocation,  it  must  be 
said,  did  not  always  come  from  the  negroes.  White  men 
of  the  lowest  class  not  seldom  were  boisterous,  threatening, 
domineering.  The  sight  of  the  negro  soldiers,  representing 
civil  authority,  enraged  them. 

The  companies  of  militia  drilled  in  the  open  air,  and 
when  they  marched  through  a  street,  they  demanded  the 
middle  of  the  road  and  the  full  right  of  way.  Respect 
able  and  cautious  people  avoided  them,  but  the  obstinate 
and  hot-headed  refused  to  turn  out  more  than  halfway, 
in  some  cases  not  at  all,  for  "a  pack  of  niggers."  The 
two  races,  morbidly  jealous  of  their  rights,  came  now  and 
then  into  collision,  and  the  tension  was  increased  by  fool 
ish  boasts  and  taunts. 

One  of  these  riots  had  just  taken  place  in  Brayton,  and 
the  atmosphere  of  high  temperature  had  not  yet  cooled. 

Bourland,  constrained  by  a  sense  of  dignity,  like  all  men 
of  his  class,  had  kept  aloof  from  interracial  brawlings ;  but 


238  HENRY  BOURLAND 

this  afternoon  he  was  forced  into  one  unwittingly.  As  he 
galloped  down  the  road,  he  came  upon  a  squad  of  black 
soldiers,  who  had  stopped  Trymier  in  his  wagon,  and  were 
demanding  a  drink  all  around  from  a  demijohn  of  whiskey 
which  the  farmer  was  taking  home.  Trymier  refusing, 
they  were  on  the  point  of  assaulting  him,  when  Bourland 
arrived. 

A  scuffle  ensued,  in  which  Trymier  was  first  wounded. 
Bourland,  drawing  his  weapon,  began  to  shoot  into  the 
crowd,  and  in  the  melee  one  negro  was  killed  outright. 
The  others  dropped  their  guns  and  fled. 

With  Trymier's  assistance  he  put  the  body  in  the  wagon, 
covered  it  with  a  blanket,  and  drove  back  to  the  village  to 
report  the  incident  to  the  officials. 

The  news  spread  quickly,  of  course.  In  a  short  time 
Bourland  was  surrounded  by  friends,  who  declared  that,  if 
any  attempt  was  made  to  arrest  him,  they  should  release 
him  by  force.  They  offered  to  accompany  him  home  as  a 
body-guard. 

"  I  don't  think  they  will  give  me  any  trouble,"  he  said. 
"  Things  are  now  in  too  excitable  a  condition.  They  know 
it  will  only  lead  to  a  fuss." 

Parker,  who  was  judge  and  political  boss  of  the  district, 
had  absolute  control  of  the  arms  of  the  law.  But  Bour 
land  felt  he  was  too  crafty  to  use  his  legal  opportunity 
against  him.  For  such  a  procedure  would  surely  produce 
a  miniature  revolution,  and  would  bring  the  political 
leader  into  discredit.  He  felt  that  the  carpet-bagger  was 
wiser  than  his  vindictive  hatred. 

"No,"  Bourland  replied  to  the  repeated  offers  of  pro 
tection,  "  don't  make  any  demonstration.  It  may  bring 
on  more  bloodshed.  Nobody  will  touch  me." 

It  was  dark  when  he  rode  homeward.  He  went,  much 
depressed,  for  he  was  sorry  to  be  embroiled  in  one  of 
these  petty  feuds.  Still  he  did  not  regret  his  action. 
He  would  not  hesitate  to  do  the  same  thing  again  in 
similar  circumstances. 

As  he  cantered  into  the  covered  bridge  the  bridle  of 
his  horse  was  seized  in  the  darkness,  and  a  voice  cried 
out,  "  Stop  !  " 


FROM   ARCADIA   TO   THE   COUNTY   JAIL     239 

"Colonel  Bourland,  I  have  a  warrant  for  your  arrest. 
Dismount  !  " 

"  What  is  the  charge  ?  "  he  asked  haughtily,  maintain 
ing  his  seat. 

"Murder." 

The  single  word  struck  him  like  a  blow  on  the  pit  of 
the  stomach. 

"  You  know  it  is  false,"  he  cried  angrily,  whipping  his 
horse. 

"  Do  you  resist  the  law  ? "  the  man  called  out,  still 
clinging  to  the  bridle. 

Bourland,  though  passion  clouded  his  judgment,  had 
sufficient  presence  of  mind  to  reflect  that  the  slightest 
overt  act  of  resistance  would  be  a  real  misdemeanor. 

"I  shall  go  with  you,"  he  said  calmly.  "Take  me 
through  Main  Street." 

"  I'm  not  such  a  fool,"  replied  the  deputy.  He  gave 
the  horse  to  one  of  his  three  negro  assistants,  and  took  a 
pair  of  handcuffs  from  his  pocket. 

"The  least  disobedience,  Colonel,  and  I  put  these  on 
you,"  he  nodded,  shaking  the  chains. 

"  Sir,"  said  Bourland,  stiffly,  "  don't  forget  that  I  am  a 
gentleman." 

"  I'm  only  obeying  orders,  Colonel,"  returned  the  man, 
apologetically. 

They  skirted  around  the  edge  of  the  town,  and  went 
through  a  deserted  lane  to  the  jail. 

In  half  an  hour  Bourland  was  locked  in  the  solitary 
darkness  of  a  felon's  cell. 


CHAPTER   XXX 

THE   RESCUE   FROM   THE   LAW 

THE  step  over  the  threshold  of  the  cell  had  seemed  like 
an  entrance  into  the  outer  darkness  of  eternal  damnation. 
The  click  of  the  lock,  as  it  slipped  into  its  mortise,  lingered 
and  echoed  long  after  the  sound  had  actually  ceased.  At 
first  that  was  the  only  definite  sensation  of  which  he  was 
conscious.  All  the  rest  was  vague  :  the  feelings  of  a  man 
buried  alive,  and  awakening  gradually  with  a  dizziness  in 
the  head,  a  burning  in  the  breast,  and  the  cold,  sour  nausea 
which  comes  from  the  fear  of  an  imminent  horror. 

When  his  mind  cleared,  he  became  aware  that  he  was 
leaning  against  a  wooden  bench,  grasping  the  back  of  it 
with  his  hands. 

Then  he  began  to  realize  the  truth.  He,  Henry  Bour- 
land,  was  in  jail  —  locked  in  the  cell  of  a  criminal.  Yes, 
he  would  be  liberated,  doubtless  speedily.  But  he  could 
never  again  reenter  the  world  with  the  same  untainted  repu 
tation.  He  would  be  haunted  by  this  disgrace,  and  must 
henceforth  be  severed  from  other  men  by  a  kind  of  self- 
imposed  ostracism,  like  that  of  a  leper  with  his  warning 
cry,  "  Unclean  !  unclean  !  " 

But  against  this  thought  the  integrity  of  his  manhood 
rose  in  revolt.  He  was  guilty  of  no  crime. 

No,  he  was  not ;  that  was  true.  But  he  was  open  to  accu 
sation,  and  he  was  in  the  power  of  an  implacable  enemy ; 
a  rogue  vowed  to  his  ruin ;  a  rascal  who  had  control  of 
the  machinery  of  the  law  and  who  could  pervert  its  use 
for  the  accomplishment  of  personal  ends. 

Soon  he  became  conscious  that  the  next  cell  had  an  in 
mate.  In  a  maundering  fashion,  a  negro  began  to  sing ; 

240 


THE   RESCUE   FROM   THE   LAW  241 

he  was  silly  drunk.  Poor  devil !  He  was  happy,  appar 
ently,  and  in  his  happiness  and  insensibility  to  shame, 
Bourland  felt  the  degradation,  the  maddening  degradation, 
into  which  he  had  been  cast.  He  was  a  figure  in  a  grim 
tableau  of  the  levelling  process. 

A  beam  of  light  shot  suddenly  into  the  cell,  like  a  golden 
shaft.  There  resounded  the  tramp  and  scuffle  of  feet  in 
the  corridor,  —  the  opening  and  the  banging  of  an  opposite 
door,  and  then  a  diffusion  of  light  streaming  in  through 
the  peephole,  and  the  thrust  of  a  key  into  the  lock. 

Bourland  did  not  move  when  the  door  opened,  and  the 
man  stopped  in  the  doorway. 

"  Humph  !  "  said  the  jailer.  "  I  was  away  when  they 
brought  you  in.  What  are  you  here  for  ?  Slippery  fingers 
or  a  drunk  ?  " 

Bourland  made  no  reply. 

The  man  came  toward  him,  thrusting  the  lantern  into  his 
face.  He  started  backward,  as  suddenly  as  if  the  prisoner 
had  struck  at  him. 

"  Lord  God  o'  mercy,"  he  cried  out.  "  Colonel  Bourland  ! 
What  are  you  doing  here  ?  " 

"  That  is  an  embarrassing  question,  my  friend,"  answered 
Bourland,  calmly.  He  told  him  of  the  incidents  of  the 
afternoon  and  of  the  arrest.  The  jailer  whistled  at  the 
narration  and  looked  solemn. 

"  I'm  afraid  Parker's  got  you  now  where  he  wants  you. 
Ever  since  the  testimony  of  niggers  has  been  admitted 
into  the  courts,  no  man  knows  what  he  will  have  to  face. 
They'll  swear  that  daylight  is  a  house  afire.  And  with 
Parker  himself  on  the  bench,  it  looks  —  "  he  paused  — 
"  well,  I  wish  I  could  say  something  cheerful." 

"  Will  you  send  word  of  my  arrest  to  my  home  ? "  re 
quested  Bourland. 

"  Yes,  sir,  I'll  do  that  gladly.  I  wish  I  could  let  you 
out  on  parole ;  but  that  wouldn't  go  on  a  murder  accusa 
tion.  But  I  can  give  you  better  quarters  and  make  you 
more  comfortable." 

He  led  him  into  a  decent  room  —  an  office  that  was  not 
in  use.  Very  soon  he  brought  him  some  supper  and  a 


242  HENKY   BOUKLAND 

handful  of  books,  one  of  which,  "The  Count  of  Monte 
Cristo,"  Bourland  began  to  read  after  the  meal.  The 
jailer  told  him  that  he  had  sent  word  to  his  home  and 
added,  with  a  meaning  expression,  that  very  probably  the 
messenger  would  stop  to  let  some  of  his  friends  in  town 
know  of  his  incarceration. 

"  I  shouldn't  be  surprised,"  said  he,  "  if  you  had  some 
visitors  to-night,  Colonel ;  and  they  may  not  send  in  their 
cards.  If  they  do  come  —  well,  it  don't  matter;  I've 
mended  the  doors  before  this." 

At  nine  o'clock,  in  came  Parker  himself.  Bourland 
heard  him  talking  and  storming  about  something  before 
he  entered  the  room.  By  the  time  he  opened  the  door, 
however,  he  had  regained  his  equanimity  and  his  usual 
batrachian  phlegma.  The  jailer  followed  him. 

"  You  know  better,  Hawkins,"  he  said  very  smoothly, 
"  you  know  better  than  to  put  a  man  accused  of  murder 
in  a  place  like  this.  You  must  keep  him  in  close  confine 
ment." 

Bourland  continued  his  reading. 

"  He's  safe  enough  here,"  replied  Hawkins.  "  He 
won't  run  away." 

"In  a  murder  case,"  continued  Parker,  gravely,  "you 
must  be  strict  in  living  up  to  the  requirements.  If  this 
laxity  were  to  be  known,  you  might  lose  your  job." 

"  Let  me  lose  it,  then,"  answered  the  other,  hotly. 

"  Mr.  Hawkins,"  said  Bourland,  rising,  "  I  think  I  should 
prefer  returning  to  my  former  place.  The  atmosphere  of 
this  room  at  present  is  tainted  with  something  foul." 

He  walked  out,  paying  no  attention  to  Parker,  whose 
jaws  worked  like  those  of  a  man  in  a  fit.  But  his  rage 
was  so  great  that  his  brain  refused  to  give  words  to  his 
tongue. 

"Leave  me  the  lantern,  can  you?"  said  Bourland,  after 
he  had  returned  to  the  cell. 

"  It's  against  the  rules,  but  I  reckon  it  won't  do  any 
harm." 

Bourland  resumed  his  reading ;  from  his  exterior  no  one 
could  discern  his  agitation. 


THE   RESCUE   FROM   THE   LAW  243 

But  Parker  was  not  yet  through  with  him  for  the  night ; 
for,  a  few  moments  later,  Bourland  saw  an  eye  watch 
ing  him  through  the  peephole,  and  later  he  heard  his  tor 
mentor  call  for  Hawkins. 

"  Have  you  taken  his  weapons  away  from  him  ? "  he 
heard  him  ask. 

"  I  wasn't  here  when  he  was  brought  in,"  replied  Haw 
kins,  sulkily. 

"  Go  in  and  search  him." 

"  I  won't  do  it.  I'm  not  going  to  insult  a  gentleman 
with  any  more  indignities.  He  has  been  very  courteous, 
and  has  given  me  no  trouble  whatever.  Go  search  him 
yourself,  if  you  want  to  see  if  he  has  any  weapons." 

"  Give  me  the  key,"  said  Parker. 

Bourland  heard  the  clinking  of  the  keys  and  the  steps 
of  the  jailer  as  he  moved  away,  and  he  could  distinguish 
the  motions  of  Parker  as  he  stood  outside,  hesitating. 

All  at  once  the  key  was  thrust  boldly  into  the  lock,  and 
the  door  opened.  Parker  stopped  on  the  threshold. 

Bourland  did  not  look  up. 

Parker  sat  down  on  the  bench  against  the  wall  and  looked 
at  him  as  a  vagabond  looks  at  a  full  meal. 

"  It  would  be  too  bad  to  cover  that  noble  face  with  a 
black  cap,"  mused  Parker,  half  aloud. 

The  picture  of  the  gallows  startled  Bourland,  and  his 
face  twitched  slightly ;  but  he  restrained  any  further 
expression  of  emotion. 

"  It  wouldn't  be  hard  to  bend  that  stiff,  proud  neck  with 
—  a  rope." 

Then  Bourland  looked  up  at  him  with  a  calm,  yet  defi 
ant  face,  and  Parker  knew  that,  Indian  though  he  might 
be  in  hate  and  revenge,  he  could  not  make  his  enemy  quail. 
Parker  began  to  lose  his  temper. 

"  Play  on  your  king's  majesty,"  he  blurted  out  with  a 
snarl.  "  But  my  day  has  come  now.  I've  stayed  in  this 
county  just  to  be  where  I  could  watch  you.  You  drove 
me  out  of  your  house,  as  if  I  were  a  tramp,  and  you  said 
you  would  see  me  in  the  chain  gang.  Now  we'll  see  who 
goes  tc  the  chain  gang.  No,  don't  worry.  You  won't  hang. 


244  HENRY   BOURLAND 

The  chain  gang  is  better ;  the  pain  lasts  longer.  Ha ! 
ha  ! "  He  began  to  imitate  the  motions  of  a  man  working 
and  dragging  along  his  ball  and  chain. 

But  Bourland  had  resumed  his  reading. 

This  enraged  Parker  all  the  more.  He  went  up  to  him 
and  almost  shouted  in  his  ear :  — 

"  Haven't  you  got  any  fighting  blood  left  in  you,  you 
white-livered  —  —  ?  " 

At  the  last  intolerable  insult,  Bourland  sprang  up, 
seized  the  lantern,  and  smashed  it  over  Parker's  skull. 
Then  he  closed  upon  him  in  the  darkness.  His  fury  was 
uncontrollable  now,  and  he  was  in  great  danger;  for  a 
genuinely  murderous  passion  was  playing  with  him  as  the 
rapids  of  Niagara  play  with  a  floating  bauble.  With  his 
strength  once  aroused,  Parker  was  a  stripling  in  his  power. 
And  the  judge  soon  realized  this,  and  began  to  cry  for 
help.  Hawkins  rushed  in  and  cried  at  the  combatants 
to  stop.  His  voice  recalled  Bourland  to  himself.  By  this 
time  the  inmates  of  the  other  cells  were  scared  by  the 
noise  of  the  scuffle  into  shouts  of  terror. 

Parker  got  free  and  slipped  away. 

Bourland,  panting  from  his  violent  effort,  attempted  to 
tell  Hawkins  how  it  happened,  but  the  man  stopped  him. 

"  Save  your  breath  to  pardon  me,  sir,"  he  said.  "  I 
heard  it  all ;  I  was  listening  at  the  door.  I  let  you  maul 
him  awhile." 

He  brought  a  mattress  into  the  cell,  and  the  prisoner, 
tired  in  mind  and  muscle,  soon  fell  asleep. 

He  dreamed  that  night  that  he  was  a  pedler,  selling 
old  law  books  to  farmers'  wives,  and  that  on  the  present 
occasion,  having  got  into  an  altercation  with  a  vigorous 
woman,  he  began  to  call  her  the  scientific  names  of  plants 
with  a  fluency  which  dated  from  his  botany  days  at  school. 
The  woman,  thinking  herself  outrageously  abused,  tried  to 
hide  behind  her  ten-year-old  daughter,  and  implored  her 
for  protection ;  but  the  child  began  to  cheer  him,  and  say 
he  was  a  brave  soldier,  and  with  this  the  phantasmagoria 
shifted,  and  he  thought  himself  lying  in  a  camp  tent, 
dreaming  a  soldier's  dream  of  home  things,  and  kept  irri- 


THE   RESCUE   FROM   THE   LAW  245 

tatingly  half  awake  by  the  rumble  and  roar  of  cannon, 
until  a  ball  rolled  slowly  into  the  tent  and  burst  with  a 
strange,  subdued  boom  which  awoke  him,  and  his  first 
thought  was,  as  his  mind  hung  poised  between  sleep  and 
consciousness,  why  the  ball  in  bursting  did  not  shriek  like 
a  shell. 

After  an  effort  he  laid  hold  of  fact;  he  collected  his 
thoughts  and  remembered  that  he  was  sleeping  on  a  mat 
tress  in  a  dark  cell  —  a  prisoner.  He  recalled  the  inci 
dents  of  the  preceding  day  and  of  the  last  evening. 

Just  then  the  door  of  the  jail  fell  in  with  a  crash,  and 
in  an  instant  the  corridor  was  filled  with  men  calling  his 
name. 

His  friends  had  come  to  his  rescue ! 

They  were  rapping  at  each  door  ;  at  last  a  man  came  to 
his  cell. 

"Inhere,  Colonel?" 

"Yes,  here  I  am,"  answered  Bourland,  who  had  now 
recovered  the  full  use  of  his  wits. 

"  This  way  with  the  axe,"  the  man  called  out. 

Five  swinging  blows,  and  the  door  came  smashing  in. 
Instantly  it  was  crowded  with  a  group  of  his  friends.  Oh  ! 
in  the  lawlessness  of  that  moment  how  gloriously  the  vision 
of  comradeship  swam  before  his  eyes !  Comrades,  —  his 
own  people,  —  in  defiance  of  the  law,  —  for  his  sake  ! 

Anderson  was  the  third  man  to  grasp  his  hand. 

"Did  you  think  we  were  long  in  coming?"  he  asked. 
"  We  wanted  to  make  sure,  and  so  we  sent  men  through 
the  neighborhood  to  bring  in  some  of  the  farmers." 

"What  time  is  it?" 

"  After  three  o'clock." 

"  Come,  let  us  get  away,"  called  out  a  man  who  seemed 
a  leader.  "  This  rascal  Parker  may  get  wind  of  this  and 
order  out  the  militia.  We  want  to  avoid  that.  He's  a 
gritty  customer,  and  won't  stop  at  anything." 

"  Let  us  finish  the  job  first,  and  string  up  those  niggers. 
Where  are  they  ?  "  a  man  in  the  group  cried  out ;  and  he 
and  several  others  with  axes  started  to  break  in  the  cell 
doors. 


246  HENRY   BOURLAND 

Bourland  walked  up  to  them. 

"  Don't ;  let  the  poor  devils  go,"  he  pleaded. 

"It  may  make  matters  all  the  worse  for  the  man  we 
have  rescued,"  urged  Anderson.  The  negroes  had  kept 
stone  quiet  in  their  dens,  fearful  of  lynching. 

"  Well,"  said  the  axeman,  "  Mr.  Anderson,  you  are  the 
whitest  Yankee  I've  ever  seen,  and  I  don't  know  but  that 
your  advice  is  good.  Let's  get  away,  men.  We  have 
rescued  the  colonel." 

As  Bourland  stepped  out  of  the  jail  doorway  into  the 
open  air,  he  was  greeted  with  cheers.  A  hundred  men 
stood  waiting  for  him,  some  of  them  watching  Hawkins, 
who  was  blindfolded,  and  bound  to  a  tree. 

Bourland  made  a  speech,  thanking  them  for  their  alle 
giance  and  hoping  for  the  dawn  of  better  days  in  the 
South. 

"  The  time  is  coming,  my  friends,  when  we  must  arise 
in  our  might  and  tear  down  the  black  flag." 

"Let  us  Ku  Klux  Parker  now,"  shouted  one  from  the 
crowd. 

"  No ;  he's  had  enough  for  one  night,"  responded  Bour 
land  ;  and  then  he  told  of  his  encounter  with  the  carpet 
bag  judge.  "Release  that  man  ;  he  was  very  kind  to  me," 
he  added,  pointing  to  Hawkins,  "  and  let  us  go  peacefully 
to  our  homes." 

In  the  rose  glow  and  candor  of  the  dawn,  Anderson  and 
Bourland  rode  back  to  the  Hall. 


BOOK  VII 
THE  RETURN  OF  THE  BOURBONS 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

A  LINK   OF   LITTLE  IMPORTANCE 

THE  next  day  Bourland  was  troubled  with  pains  in  the 
head,  and  before  the  end  of  the  week  he  was  prostrate 
with  brain  fever. 

Anderson  stayed  on,  and  Eleanor  and  he  watching  night 
and  day  nursed  the  patient  back  to  life.  It  was  by  the 
bedside  of  her  brother  that  Eleanor  first  came  to  know 
the  tenderness,  the  devotion,  the  inspiring  patience  of  the 
rugged  Yankee  engineer.  Often  she  felt  herself  breaking 
down,  but  his  strength  sustained  her.  In  time  she  began 
to  regard  this  man,  whom  chance  had  led  to  their  remote 
home,  as  the  incarnation  of  enduring  power.  No  matter 
what  the  situation  or  crisis,  he  was  always  its  master. 

As  for  Anderson,  during  the  period  of  anxiety,  he  never 
referred  by  word,  look,  or  unconscious  betrayal  of  thought 
to  the  emotion  which,  nevertheless,  was  uppermost  in  his 
mind.  He  obscured  himself  in  service. 

Yet  in  secret  he  did  rejoice  as  he  saw  destiny  weaving 
the  thread  of  his  life  into  the  texture  of  that  family. 

It  was  a  singular  power  that  this  reticent  little  lady  of 
broken  fortunes  came  to  possess  over  the  brawny  Northern 
man  of  affairs.  To  the  analyst  the  secret  of  that  attraction 
might  perhaps  be  inscrutable,  a  sublime  mystery,  like 
one  of  Nature's  ultimate  causes.  Its  occasion  lay,  doubt- 

247 


248  HENRY  BOURLAND 

less,  somewhere  in  that  unwritten  life  history  of  his  past, 
and  it  found  a  parallel  in  the  power  of  the  cold  magnet 
over  the  hardened  steel. 

At  last  Bourland  began  to  mend. 

"Go  now,  my  friend,"  said  Eleanor.  "My  brother  is 
out  of  danger.  Your  business  has  long  needed  your 
attention." 

He  shook  an  emphatic  refusal.  "  That  is  only  a  money 
matter.  The  iron  has  lain  in  the  rocks  for  ages.  It  will 
remain  a  few  weeks  longer,  I  guess.  I  shall  not  leave 
you  yet." 

She  was  glad  that  he  stayed.     She  was  so  lonely. 

By  this  time  the  racial  feud  and  the  agitation  had  sub 
sided.  Bourland 's  illness  created  a  sympathy  which  made 
him  immune  from  the  law.  The  officials,  who  were 
mostly  place  hunters,  made  no  attempt  to  arrest  the  lead 
ers  of  "  the  committee  of  safety,"  as  the  rescue  party  styled 
themselves.  The  law  became  a  paralyzed  arm  of  injus 
tice.  As  for  Parker,  for  a  long  time  he  remained  quiet 
and  innocuous. 

The  summer  had  been  for  two  weeks  a  glad  visitor  when 
Bourland  came  downstairs.  They  placed  a  chair  for  him 
in  the  shadow  of  the  cool  maples.  He  was  weak  still,  and 
his  lassitude  let  him  drift  off  into  dreamful  revery.  The 
atmosphere,  to  his  closed  sight,  was  the  balm  of  a  vanished 
June.  The  breeze  stole  upon  him  like  languorous  music 
and  died  softly  in  the  hushed  recesses  of  memory.  Slum 
ber  lifted  him  with  her  wings,  and  drew  him  over  the  verge 
and  up  into  the  far  beyond.  He  heard  the  murmur  of  a 
familiar  voice ;  cool  hands  pressed  comfort  upon  his  burn 
ing  forehead ;  a  face  leaned  close  to  his  own,  and  subdued 
the  fever  with  warm,  breathing  lips ;  eyes,  infinitely  sad 
and  sweet,  grew  moist  with  healing  sympathy.  Then  the 
vision  melted  in  the  dawning  twilight  of  consciousness, 
and  dissolved  in  a  mist  of  burnished  haze. 

The  seclusion  of  recent  years  had  transfigured  that  face 
in  Bourland's  remembrance — somewhat,  one  dare  imag 
ine,  as  the  face  of  Beatrice  was  transfigured  and  clarified 
in  the  soul  of  the  world-weary  Dante.  It  grew  to  be,  even 


Aunt  Eleanor  says  I've  been  bad,  and  must  report.'  " 


A   LINK   OF   LITTLE   IMPORTANCE  249 

more  than  those  stern  portraits  in  the  house,  a  living 
presence  among  his  thoughts. 

He  awoke  just  in  time  to  catch  a  pretty  picture.  Ander 
son  was  pitching  horseshoes  on  the  gravel  path,  while 
Randall,  trotting  between  the  points,  was  clapping  hands 
at  a  "ringer."  Eleanor,  in  white  apron,  was  sitting  upon 
the  upper  veranda  step,  watching. 

"  Go  tell  him,  Randall,"  said  Eleanor,  changing  a  smile 
of  pleasure  to  sternness. 

The  child  turned  from  the  game  with  wry  face  and 
reluctant  steps. 

"Aunt  Eleanor  says  I've  been  bad,  and  must  report." 

"Well,  out  with  it,  Chap,"  said  Bourland,  kindly. 

"I  said  old  Parker  was  a 'damn  scoundrel,' "  the  boy 
confessed  resolutely.  "I  ain't  sorry.  He  is,  for  Mr. 
Anderson  said  so." 

"  Well,  you  go  to  Mr.  Anderson  and  tell  him  he  must 
do  the  punishing,  then,"  said  Bourland,  patting  the  child's 
head. 

"Oh,  Henry!"  cried  Eleanor,  in  protest.  Just  then 
the  black  maid  came  to  the  doorway  and  rang  the  dinner 
bell. 

In  the  afternoon,  with  Anderson's  assistance,  Bourland 
walked  to  a  seat  by  the  ledge.  The  time  had  come  for 
Anderson  to  take  his  leave. 

"I  got  a  letter  this  morning,"  said  he,  "from  the  presi 
dent  of  the  company.  He  says  that  if  I  am  not  back  in 
a  week  he  will  bring  a  sheriff's  posse  with  requisition 
papers  and  drag  me  back." 

"You  have  been  a  loyal  friend  to  us.  I  cannot  thank 
you  enough.  I  feel  like  a  bankrupt  with  nothing  but 
unlimited  assets  of  gratitude." 

He  spoke  with  deep  feeling,  and  looked  sadly  out  upon 
the  open  prospect  of  the  fields. 

"They  were  all  mine  once,  all  the  way  down  to  the 
creek  and  over  to  the  woodland.  They  have  slipped  away, 
and  now  I  have  only  a  few  acres  left,  a  mere  garden  patch 
around  the  Hall.  My  enemy  surrounds  me.  I  am  as  iso 
lated  as  Robinson  Crusoe  on  his  island.  A  short  time, 


250  HENKY  BOURLAND 

and  the  house  will  have  to  go,  too."  He  looked  up  into 
the  trees,  and  added,  "Somehow,  I  don't  care  now." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  in  the  future?"  asked  the 
Yankee,  to  whom  forethought  was  a  cardinal  virtue. 

"I  don't  know." 

That  was  the  answer  of  so  many  of  the  hopeless  in  those 
days.  They  were  born  of  the  old  era,  with  no  versatility, 
and  they  could  not  readjust  themselves  to  the  new.  So 
the  stream  of  their  lives  drifted,  drifted,  until  it  slipped 
into  the  caverns  of  oblivion. 

"  I  suppose  I  shall  stay  here  with  Eleanor  until  the  end. 
We  don't  like  the  idea  of  deserting  ship.  Then  God 
knows  where  we  shall  go,"  he  added  languidly. 

The  energetic  spirit  of  the  Yankee  was  irritated,  for  the 
moment,  by  the  resignation,  the  melancholy  fatalism,  of 
the  Virginian.  He  looked  toward  the  Hall.  It  stood 
there  as  a  barrier  between  him  and  his  desire.  A  selfish 
motive  prompted  the  wish  that  it  might  soon  pass  out  of 
the  family's  possession.  Then  there  would  be  a  severance 
from  the  past,  and  Eleanor  would  be  free  and  open  to  new 
impressions  of  him  and  his  world. 

That  evening,  by  a  drift  of  impulse  which  she  did  not 
seek  to  divert,  he  found  himself  alone  with  her.  On  this 
eve  of  his  departure  he  was  hungry  for  a  token.  He  was 
reluctant  to  leave  all  alone;  he  wished  that  she  might 
send  away  with  him  a  little  comrade  of  hope. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  there  had  come  a  passing  shower, 
followed  by  a  brilliant  rainbow  and  a  glad  renewal  of  song 
from  the  birds.  The  mood  of  joyousness  which  these  had 
brought  lingered  with  them  both  into  the  evening.  The 
night  was  deliciously  cool ;  the  breezes  washed  the  air  to 
limpid  purity;  in  the  west,  the  moon  hung  above  the  rim 
of  the  mountains  like  a  golden  censer. 

"I  shall  be  very  sorry  to  have  you  go,"  she  said 
frankly. 

"How  deep  is  that  sorrow?" 

She  thought  a  moment. 

"As  deep,  fully  as  deep,  as  the  shallowness  of  my 
present  life." 


A   LINK   OF   LITTLE   IMPORTANCE  251 

"  Then  it  is  the  past  which  stands  between  us  ?  It  is 
the  past  which  no  thoughts  of  me  can  obscure?" 

"I  cannot  say  that  they  have  done  so  —  yet." 

The  hesitation  and  the  timidity  with  which  she  added 
that  trivial  word  "  yet "  made  his  heart  bound  as  if  it  had 
received  the  precious  gift  of  hope.  Her  past  had  been  to 
him  a  treasury  with  sealed  doors.  He  had  never  knocked 
there  for  a  glimpse  of  the  interior. 

"Oh,  "she  broke  out  with  a  confidence  that  warmed  him 
like  a  caress,  "oh,  you  don't  know  how  hard  it  is  to  face 
some  questions !  I  think  I  revere  loyalty  as  the  noblest 
thing  in  the  world  and  for  me  to  turn  away  from  —  from 
the  past,  it  seems  like  treason  and  dishonor." 

"I  have  turned  away  from  —  a  past;  flung  it  away, 
and  that  has  been  my  salvation."  His  words  were  half 
soliloquy. 

"  Oh,  yes !  I  know.  But  yours  was  different.  Mine 
was  so  beautiful,  and  yours  was  very  bitter  —  a  mistake." 

"How  do  you  know  that?" 

"Forgive  me.     I  didn't  mean  to  —  " 

"You  are  not  intruding.  I  have  no  wish  to  conceal 
anything  from  you.  But  how  do  you  know?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  only  conjecture.  You  are  a  very 
practical  man,  but  in  secret  you  cherish  a  need  for  high 
idealism.  I  have  discovered  that.  You  are  very  strong 
willed,  very  persistent,  and  when  you  take  anything  into 
your  inner  life,  you  do  not  let  it  go  without  fighting  a 
terrific  battle.  You  haven't  known  women  very  familiarly, 
and  therefore  it  is  easy  for  you  to  confuse  a  woman  with 
an  ideal.  Am  I  not  right?"  Her  wisdom  shone  through 
gracious  smiling. 

"Perhaps,"  he  answered.     "Go  on." 

"The  rest  I  am  not  so  sure  about.  But  I  imagine  that 
for  a  long  time  you  served  and  worshipped  some  woman 
with  blind,  unfaltering  devotion.  Then  came  an  experi 
ence,  —  it  had  to  come  sooner  or  later,  —  and  your  eyes 
were  opened.  You  found  her,  let  me  say,  very  selfish, 
very  vain,  like  so  many  small  women.  You  found  your 
ideal  was  only  a  deity  beautifully  carven  in  stone.  You 


252  HENRY   BOURLAND 

didn't  break  your  idol.  You  simply  turned  away  and 
refused  to  worship  her  further." 

He  mused  for  several  minutes. 

"  You  are  not  altogether  right,  although  you  are  in  the 
main.  But  I  look  back  upon  it  with  no  emotion." 

"Possibly  so.  But  it  has  left  a  brandmark  upon  you. 
It  has  made  life  bitter  for  you ;  yet  that  bitterness  will 
make  the  rest  of  it  more  sweet  and  beautiful.  To  a  man 
with  such  an  experience  I  think  a  woman  would  trust 
herself  more  confidently.  She  oughtn't  to  be  jealous." 

"And  you?"  There  was  an  ambiguity  in  his  ques 
tion. 

"  Oh !  Fate  has  been  more  kind  and  far  more  cruel  to 
me,"  she  answered,  taking  one  meaning  with  a  proud 
willingness  to  answer.  "I  never  knew  him  to  be  other 
than  I  thought  him;  my  dream  of  him  has  never  been 
broken,  and  it  never  can  be  now.  I  think  he  is  loyal  in 
his  grave." 

He  expected  her  to  break  down,  but  she  did  not. 

"Don't  you  see,"  she  continued  with  calm  steadiness, 
"though  it  was  never  realized,  I  can  never  forget." 

He  bent  toward  her  and  whispered :  — 

"I  don't  want  you  to  forget.  I  honor  you  more  because 
you  cannot.  But  don't  you  think  you  can  still  find  room 
forme?" 

He  felt  now  that  the  final  judgment  would  be  passed 
upon  him.  As  she  hesitated  to  speak,  he  stood  up  before 
her,  firm,  undaunted,  like  a  patriot  facing  the  muskets 
that  were  to  shoot  him. 

He  loved  her  more  fiercely  as  he  saw  her  tossing  help 
lessly  on  a  turbulence  of  sweet,  sympathetic  indecision. 
But  he  would  not  urge  his  plea  further. 

"I  can't  say  'yes.'  I  don't  want  to  say  'no.'  I  don't 
want  you  to  go  out  of  my  life.  During  these  last  weeks  I 
have  come  to  admire  you  more  and  more.  But  it  is  —  no, 
you  must  not  interrupt  your  career.  You  must  not  set 
your  tenacious  purpose  on  anything  so  worthless  —  I  am 
only  one  of  the  broken  relics." 

He  came  nearer,  full  of  protesting  affection. 


A  LINK  OF  LITTLE  IMPORTANCE  253 

"No,  there  is  another  reason  which  makes  it  impos 
sible.  " 

He  stopped,  and  begged  for  the  reason. 

She  pointed  toward  the  Hall,  with  its  sombre  front 
illuminated  with  pale  rectangles  of  light  —  the  grim 
stronghold  of  her  last  defence. 

"  I  would  never  leave  him  alone.  So  long  as  the  home 
is  ours,  I  shall  stay  with  him." 

Anderson  stood  face  to  face  with  a  new  revelation  of 
the  character  of  the  Southern  race.  Bred  in  the  North, 
where  restless  ambitions  easily  sever  the  home  ties,  he 
never  before  realized  the  strength  of  the  Southern  spirit 
of  loyalty  to  the  clan,  to  the  family  claim. 

But  it  revived  his  courage  and  determination;  for  it 
was  an  obstacle  that  must  soon  be  removed.  The  end  of 
the  possession  of  the  home  was  near,  and  when  that  came, 
then  there  was  hope  that  he  could  gain  the  homeless  mis 
tress  as  a  bride.  Then,  and  the  thought  aroused  all  the 
chivalry  of  his  nature,  then  there  would  be  need  for  him. 

"That  is  a  reason,"  he  answered,  "which  we  can  leave 
to  time.  I  shall  go  back  to  my  work  and  wait." 

She  had  neither  the  will  nor  the  desire  to  thwart  him 
further.  She  cherished  from  that  evening  a  remembrance 
of  glad  gratitude. 

The  next  morning  he  left  them  for  the  North. 


CHAPTER   XXXII 

THE  AWAKENING   AND   THE   CALL 

AFTER  Anderson's  departure,  Bourland  soon  relapsed 
into  his  aimless  life  of  inaction. 

The  surroundings  of  his  own  home  were  both  destructive 
and  preservative  of  the  best  in  his  nature.  In  one  way  they 
dulled  and  deadened  all  his  executive  faculties  with  the 
overmastering  power  of  a  narcotic.  Yet  in  another  way 
they  fostered  a  contemplative  loyalty  to  those  things  which 
were  noble  and  sacred.  The  dying  charge  of  his  father, 
the  melancholy  tragedy  of  the  lost  cause,  the  unforgettable 
glory  of  that  shattered  love,  and  with  these  in  the  back 
ground,  the  remembrances  of  youth,  affection,  and  pride, 
in  the  presence  of  these,  as  in  a  temple  of  prayer,  he  bowed 
and  brooded  like  a  refugee  from  a  sinful  world. 

As  a  consequence,  his  thoughts  were  centred  in  an 
exalted  life  of  the  spirit,  but  his  energies  oozed  away  from 
an  utter  paralysis  of  the  will. 

For  the  patch  of  land  that  remained  to  him  there  was 
little  need  of  an  anxious  watchfulness.  Two  or  three  ser 
vants  still  clung  to  the  place,  but  the  others  had  wandered 
away,  and  the  songs  of  cabin  and  field  were  hushed, — 
the  old  songs,  —  hushed  forever.  With  a  little  help 
Nature  ran  her  course  from  season  to  season,  and  brought 
forth  fruit  and  flower  in  ever  decreasing  abundance. 

Except  when  chance  brought  him  face  to  face  with  a 
crisis,  like  the  recent  riot,  in  which  his  energy  and  execu 
tive  decision  were  forced  into  play,  Bourland  sat  at  home, 
like  a  hidalgo  of  old  Spain,  mourning  a  vanished  glory. 

There  was  one  sunbeam  in  this  charnel-house  of  dead 
memories.  That  was  Little  Chap,  and  he  saved  the  human 
nature  of  brother  and  sister  from  extinction. 

254 


THE  AWAKENING  AND  THE  CALL  255 

He  was  a  precocious  youngster,  with  much  of  the  cherub 
in  his  nature,  and  a  certain  amount  of  the  satanic.  The 
father  loved  him  for  his  pranks,  kissed  him  for  his  mis 
doings,  and  spoiled  him  most  outrageously,  Aunt  Eleanor 
declared. 

"  He  can't  go  far  wrong,"  Bourland  would  reply  to  her 
protestations.  "  He  has  the  disposition  of  his  mother." 

At  the  age  of  three  he  was  put  into  knickerbockers ;  on 
his  fourth  birthday,  citing  the  precedent  of  young  Henry 
of  Navarre,  his  father  poured  some  brandy  into  his  milk ; 
before  he  was  five,  he  was  an  accomplished  horseman,  rid 
ing  before  his  father  in  the  saddle. 

"  The  child  will  fall  and  break  his  neck,"  Eleanor  cried, 
when  Bourland  leaned  down  from  his  horse,  grabbed  the 
boy  by  the  coat  collar,  and  swung  him  into  the  seat. 

"  Every  gentleman's  son  should  learn  to  ride  and  shoot," 
was  his  excuse.  "You  can't  begin  too  early." 

He  was  at  times  a  vexatious  little  sinner,  and  often  the 
affection  of  the  father,  particularly  in  his  moods  of  tension, 
would  give  place  to  wrath. 

One  evening,  for  instance,  when  the  three  were  in  the 
large  room,  Bourland  reading,  Eleanor  worrying  over 
problems  in  household  economy  (she  managed  all  affairs 
now),  and  Randall  playing  ball,  the  child  made  a  mis- 
throw  and  struck  his  father. 

"  Don't  throw  that  ball  again.  Put  it  away  at  once," 
said  Bourland,  vexatiously. 

An  instant  later  the.  ball  was  thrown  again,  and  this 
time  it  hit  the  grandfather's  portrait  and  made  it  rattle. 

The  boy  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  floor  in  a  defiant 
attitude,  and  the  Bourland  blood  in  his  cheeks  was  as  red 
as  a  pie  cherry. 

The  father  was  about  to  let  his  irritation  explode,  but 
he  so  admired  the  boy's  spirit  that  he  throttled  the  pas 
sionate  impulse. 

"  Come  here,  Little  Chap,"  he  said  kindly,  yet  with  the 
kindness  of  rebuke. 

The  spirit  of  defiance  broke  down.  He  ran  into  his 
father's  outstretched  arms. 


256  HENRY   BOURLAND 

"  See  your  grandfather's  eyes,  boy.  They  are  looking 
down  at  you." 

Bourland  could  feel  the  child's  limbs  wince  under  the 
scrutiny. 

"He's  watching  you.  He  sees  everything  you  do. 
Remember,  those  eyes  are  always  on  you." 

Deep  in  the  child's  life  were  branded  forever  those  two 
searching  eyes.  They  haunted  him,  years  afterward,  like 
an  accusing  conscience. 

.  "You  were  naughty,  just   now.     Don't   you   see   how 
sad  he  seems  ?  " 

The  thought  of  his  grandfather,  of  death,  of  his  watch 
ful  spirit,  so  awed  the  child  that  he  sat  subdued  all  even 
ing  until  bedtime.  Before  he  climbed  into  his  bed,  he 
kneeled  before  his  aunt  to  say  his  prayers  ;  first  of  all, 
the  childish  prayer  which  so  often  outlives  our  childish 
years  ;  and  then,  after  that,  he  prayed  for  father  and 
mother  and  aunt,  and  Sam  and  Sarah  and  Trip  ;  and 
when  he  had  done  with  these  he  added,  "  Please,  God, 
cheer  up  grandpa,  and  don't  let  him  worry  because  I  was 
bad.  I  won't  be  bad  any  more." 

After  the  light  was  out,  and  the  little  penitent  lay 
alone,  he  couldn't  sleep.  Two  sad,  immovable  eyes  were 
staring  at  him  out  of  the  darkness. 

Eleanor  went  downstairs  and  told  her  brother  laugh 
ingly  of  the  boy's  prayer. 

"  How  proud  Margaret  would  have  been  of  him,"  he 
murmured,  and  flung  his  head  back  helplessly. 

"I  should  think  that  the  thought  of  him  and  his 
future  would  rouse  you  out  of  your  selfish  idleness,"  she 
replied  with  a  trace  of  real  rebuke. 

Those  were  the  first  words  of  reproach  she  had  spoken 
since  his  illness.  They  stung  him  with  guilty  viru 
lence. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  he  questioned  in  self-defence. 

"  I  mean  that  there  are  things  for  a  man  to  do  in  these 
times,  and  you  are  not  doing  them."  The  words  came 
unwontedly  firm  and  incisive.  "  What  have  I  been  doing 
these  last  years  ?  Not  much,  it  is  true,  but  some- 


THE   AWAKENING   AND   THE   CALL  257 

thing."  A  voice  long  stifled  in  her,  it  seemed,  was  find 
ing  utterance. 

The  brother  regarded  her  with  surprise,  and  then  for 
the  first  time  he  read  the  record  which  those  uncomplain 
ing  years  had  written  on  her  face.  She  had  been  a 
strong,  silent  woman,  and  when  he  had  lapsed  into  his 
futile  life  of  revery,  the  burden  of  the  cares  had  come  to 
her,  and  she  had  taken  up  that  burden,  and  borne  it 
until  now  without  a  murmur. 

There  was  the  dry  glaze  of  weariness  in  her  eyes.  She 
quivered  visibly  as  she  endeavored  to  quell  a  rising 
indignation. 

"I  don't  mean  to  be  cross,  Henry  ;  but  oh,  I  am  so 
tired,"  and  with  that,  overcome  by  a  most  womanly 
attack  of  hysteria,  she  wept ;  she  wept  at  last. 

He  took  her  in  his  arms  and  begged  her  forgiveness. 
He  confessed  that  he  had  been  criminally  thoughtless  and 
selfish. 

"  But  what  can  I  do  ?  "  he  pleaded.  "  Our  enemies  are 
in  power,  and  they  are  ruining  us.  There  is  no  way  to 
resist  except  by  becoming  a  breaker  of  the  law.  I  can't 
take  to  that." 

"  Use  your  brains,"  she  cried  out  with  fierce  enthusiasm. 
"  Oh,  if  I  were  only  a  man !  " 

She  stood  at  full  height,  a  Juno,  divine  in  her  wrath. 

That  phrase  rang  in  his  ears  long  afterward.  The  hall 
clock  ticked  it  in  the  silence  of  night ;  when  he  awoke  in 
the  morning,  it  was  the  first  thought  that  came  to  him. 
"  Use  your  brains." 

Two  days  later  he  was  offered  an  opportunity  to  do  so. 

All  through  the  South  the  outrages  and  peculations  of 
the  reconstruction  governments  had  become  so  atrocious 
that  there  was  a  growing  resolution  on  the  part  of  the 
whites  to  put  an  end  to  them  by  some  method,  fair  or  foul. 

One  evening  Bourland  received  a  visit  from  a  committee 
of  three  citizens.  The  chairman  was  a  prominent  char 
acter  known  as  "  Flue "  Powell,  who  had  seen  much  ser 
vice  in  the  House  of  Delegates  before  the  war,  and  who 
had  been  baptized  with  his  nickname  for  his  fluency  of 


258  HENRY  BOURLAND 

speech.  He  was  accompanied  by  two  Confederate  soldiers 
named  Jacobs  and  Wilson. 

"  We've  come  to  have  a  talk  with  you,  Colonel,"  said 
Powell.  "  The  great  day  is  a-ripening.  We  are  going  to 
reclaim  the  state  at  the  next  election." 

"  I'm  glad  the  time  has  come,"  answered  Bourland.  "  I 
have  been  waiting  and  hoping  for  it." 

"  There's  a  sympathetic  movement,  a  rising  of  the  tem 
perature  all  through  the  Southern  states,  and  it  means  the 
end  of  carpet-bagger,  scalawag,  and  nigger  rule.  We've 
been  living  like  cattle  long  enough.  The  South  has  become 
an  Augean  stable,  so  to  speak,  and  we  are  going  to  clean 
it  out." 

"  Well,"  said  Bourland,  "  you  know  I  tried  some  years 
back,  and  worked  hard,  but  we  were  badly  beaten.  I  got 
discouraged  by  the  apathy,  and  quit/' 

"  It  has  come  to  this,  sir,"  spoke  up  Jacobs.  "  The  white 
men  have  either  got  to  rule  the  Southern  states  or  get  out 
of  them." 

"They  ought  to  rule,"  answered  Bourland. 

"  They  will,  they  shall,  by  heaven,  they  shall !  "  broke 
out  Powell,  with  more  decorated  emphasis.  "  White  men 
can't  stand  what  we  have  stood  any  longer.  Do  you  know, 
sir,  that  there  are  one  hundred  and  nineteen  niggers  on  the 
benches  of  justice  in  Virginia  who  can't  read  or  write  ?  " 
The  old  man's  lip  vibrated  with  indignation  like  a  tele 
graph  ticker. 

"  I  didn't  know  there  were  so  many,"  replied  Bourland. 

"  We're  bad  enough  off  in  Virginia  ;  but  south  of  us  it's 
far  worse.  Why,  the  robbers  down  there  have  fairly  ripped 
their  pockets  trying  to  stuff  in  their  stealings."  Then 
with  a  vigor  that  increased  as  he  went  on,  he  began  to  fire 
off  statistics  with  the  rapidity  of  a  Gatling  gun :  statistics 
of  the  tax  rates,  which  were  four  to  six  times  above  the 
normal ;  statistics  of  the  enormous  increase  in  the  state 
debts,  for  which,  in  the  commonwealths,  there  was  little  or 
nothing  to  show.  In  South  Carolina  the  state  debt,  dur 
ing  the  carpet-bagger  regime,  was  increased  from  five  to 
eighteen  millions  of  dollars  ;  in  Alabama,  in  three  or  four 


THE   AWAKENING   AND   THE   CALL  259 

years,  from  eight  to  twenty-five  millions ;  in  other  states, 
the  proportion  was  scarcely  less.  In  North  Carolina,  the 
blackleg  legislature  issued  twenty-five  millions  of  bonds, 
and  in  Tennessee,  six  millions,  for  railroads,  few  miles  of 
the  tracks  of  which  were  ever  laid ;  but  the  bonds  were 
issued,  sold  off  at  a  discount,  and  scored  against  the  states. 

44  Who's  going  to  pay  these  debts?  "  exclaimed  Powell. 
"  It  will  be  our  children,  who  will  never  get  a  dollar's  worth 
of  benefit  for  the  money.  Why,  down  in  Georgia  — 

"  Stop  !  that's  enough  for  me.  What  do  you  want  me 
to  do  ?  "  broke  in  Bourland.  He  was  filled  with  remorse 
and  shame  when  he  realized  that  he,  boasting  of  natural 
leadership,  was  so  ignorant  of  political  conditions,  and 
that  these  men  had  to  arouse  him  to  action.  "  I'm  ready 
for  you  now,"  he  added,  the  spirit  of  fight  awakening  out 
of  his  inertia. 

"  That  isn't  the  worst  of  it,"  persisted  Powell.  "  That's 
only  money  matters.  But  things  are  getting  so  bad  from 
the  lawlessness  of  niggers  that  a  farmer  can't  go  into  the 
fields  any  morning  without  the  fear  that  he  may  be  called 
back  by  the  shrieks  of  his  wife  or  daughter  to  protect 
them  from  assault.  I  tell  you,  hell's  loose  down  here,  and 
we've  got  to  chain  the  devils  or  pack  up  and  emigrate." 

"  Well,  boys,"  said  Bourland,  who  by  this  time  was 
nervously  walking  up  and  down  the  room,  "  you  can  count 
on  me.  What  is  your  plan  ?  It  won't  need  much  talk  to 
make  me  volunteer." 

"  We  know  you,"  said  Jacobs,  laughing.  "  We  know 
the  stuff  that  you  are  made  of.  You  won't  need  any  stir 
ring  up  when  you  once  get  started.  But  to  come  to  the 
point.  We  are  a  committee  of  the  citizens.  They  know 
all  about  you,  and  your  affairs  with  Parker.  The  stay-at- 
homes  are  getting  over  their  sulks.  We  want  you  to  be 
the  leader  of  this  district  to  beat  Parker  and  haul  down 
his  black  flag.  We  want  to  put  a  real  Greek  against  the 
barbarian.  You  will  be  backed  by  every  respectable  man 
in  the  county." 

Bourland  felt  his  stature  grow  taller  with  pride  ;  he 
felt  his  former  self  "returning  in  full  strength.  This 


260  HENRY  BOURLAND 

recognition  by  the  people,  his  people  whom  he  had  for 
gotten,  this  recognition  of  confidence,  of  worth,  of  his 
genius  for  leadership,  —  oh  !  his  heart  beat  like  a  school 
boy's  when  he  walks  out  to  take  his  first  prize. 

"Do  you  really  want  me?  Do  you  think  I  am  the 
man  ?  "  he  asked,  stammering  with  joy. 

"That's  what  we  are  here  for.  It  is  official,"  said 
Wilson,  who  had  spoken  very  little  as  yet.  "  You  know 
at  the  next  election  we  vote  for  governor  and  members  of 
the  legislature.  We  want  you  to  go  to  Richmond  as  our 
man  in  the  House  of  Delegates,  and  by  the  Lord,  we  are 
going  to  put  you  there,  too." 

"  Do  you  think  you  can,  with  this  gang  of  Radicals  in 
full  control  of  the  election  machinery  ?  " 

"  We  are  going  to  do  it,"  said  Jacobs,  with  quiet  assur 
ance.  "We  are  going  to  send  the  Bourbons  back  to  their 
birthrights.  That's  simple,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"How?" 

"  Well,  first  of  all,  we  shall  use  our  brains." 

Bourland  started.  That  same  phrase  had  been  echoing 
in  his  mind  ever  since  Eleanor  flung  it  at  him. 

"  And  then  ?  " 

There  was  a  pause.  It  was  the  resolute  Jacobs  who 
replied  :  — 

"  Well,  if  worst  comes  to  worst,  we  shall  show  a  few 
shot-guns  to  the  niggers  ;  they'll  scare  fast  enough.  And 
perhaps  we'll  have  to  use  the  Klan." 

"  Oh,  not  the  Klan  !  "  exclaimed  Bourland. 

"  That  will  depend  on  the  tactics  of  our  enemies.  We 
shall  use  it  only  in  extremities." 

"I'm  not  used  to  that  kind  of  politics,  gentlemen." 

"  You  needn't  soil  your  hands,"  said  Wilson,  quickly. 
"  There  will  be  plenty  of  men  ready  to  do  the  dirty  work." 

"  If  I  take  the  leadership,"  responded  Bourland,  "  I 
shall  not  shirk  any  of  the  responsibility.  If  I  get  into 
the  boat,  I  shall  be  one  of  the  boat's  crew.  Let  me  think 
a  moment  before  I  give  a  final  decision." 

He  paced  the  floor  while  they  waited  in  silence.  He 
wanted  to  be  their  leader  again.  But  could  he  give  his 


THE   AWAKENING   AND   THE   CALL  261 

full  assent  to  the  use  of  illegal  methods  ?  He  realized  that 
they  were  facing,  not  a  theory,  but  a  condition,  now  become 
so  intolerable  that  it  must  have  some  solution,  legal  or 
illegal.  His  quick  mind,  as  he  meditated,  framed  his  argu 
ment  of  justification.  It  was  a  logical  sorites  and  followed 
a  reasoning  something  like  this  :  — 

Tlie  white  man  must  rule  the  inferior  and  incapable  black. 
This  is  an  axiom,  and  is  not  debatable. 

He  does  not  rule  at  present,  and  the  result  is  an  insuffer 
able  condition. 

The  law  of  self-preservation  demands  acts  of  self-defence. 
By  reason,  in  a  civilized  community  ;  by  force,  in  a  commu 
nity  which  has  lapsed  into  barbarism  or  semi- civilization. 

The  South,  by  reason  of  the  unnatural  and  ill-timed 
enfranchisement  of  the  negro,  has  lapsed  into  a  condition  of 
semi- civilization. 

Force  is  therefore  justifiable  as  a  means  of  self-defence. 

He  thought  it  out  clearly  and  came  up  to  the  men, 
holding  out  his  hand. 

"  I'm  with  you,  boys.  I  will  accept  your  nomination 
with  gratitude.  I  shall  do  my  best  to  win.  All  I  ask  is 
that  we  shall  be  as  clean-handed  as  possible." 

After  they  left  his  mind  was  not  perfectly  at  ease. 
He  had  been  bred  in  a  tradition  which  respected  the  law ; 
and  now,  even  though  he  was  sure  the  law  was  unjust,  he 
was  joining,  even  leading,  a  movement  which  would  evade, 
nullify,  yes,  actually  break  the  law.  He  went,  years 
before,  into  the  Bloody  Angle  for  his  people,  with  far  less 
hesitation.  But  now  —  no  matter,  in  this,  too,  he  would 
be  resolute  for  the  sake  of  his  people. 

By  chance  his  gaze  crossed  the  eyes  of  his  father  in  the 
portrait.  There  was,  in  truth,  a  sadness  in  the  painted 
features.  If  the  elder  man  were  there  now  to  speak  and 
advise,  what  would  he  say?  Would  he  approve  of  the 
son's  decision  ?  or  would  he  stand  aloof  and  let  the  black 
plague  continue  to  scourge  the  Southlands  ? 

Bourland  studied  the  riddle  suggested  by  that  sad  coun 
tenance,  and  then,  feeling  himself  alone  with  his  problem, 
he  murmured  :  "  I  have  used  my  best  judgment.  We 


262  HENRY   BOUELAND 

must  change  this  intolerable  condition.  Altered  times 
necessitate  an  alteration  of  principles.  We  must  regain 
control  of  the  South ;  if  not  by  one  way,  then  by  the 
other." 

The  next  morning  he  awoke  with  the  sensations  of  a 
man  who  had  just  entered  into  a  band  of  confederates 
pledged  to  a  desperate  undertaking.  But  he  was  unflinch 
ingly  resolute. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

BEHIND   CLOSED   DOORS 

WITHIN  the  next  ten  days  Bourland  was  made  the 
formal  nominee  of  the  district  for  the  House  of  Delegates, 
and  political  headquarters  for  the  campaign  were  opened 
in  Brayton. 

The  Radical  candidate  for  governor  was  a  man  named 
Bollin,  formerly  a  ward  boss  in  New  York.  He  had  been 
speaker  of  the  house  in  the  last  legislature,  and  though 
he  stood  high  in  the  councils  of  his  own  party,  he  was 
known  to  the  Conservatives  as  the  Black  Crook.  The 
Conservatives  selected  an  old  soldier,  Gilbert  by  name, 
to  make  the  fight  against  him,  and  with  his  nomination 
began  the  battle  of  the  Bourbons  to  drive  "the  Philis 
tines  and  Ethiopians  "  out  of  office. 

Truly,  there  were  signs  abroad  that  the  day  of  resur 
rection  was  dawning  upon  Virginia.  From  the  bounds 
of  the  tide-water  lands  to  the  slopes  of  the  valley  the 
native  citizens  of  the  commonwealth  were  awakening  to 
a  sense  of  their  responsibility  and  duty. 

The  Radicals,  intrenched  in  power  and  controlling  the 
election  machinery,  at  first  jeered  the  hopes  of  the  oppo 
sition.  But  in  the  face  of  the  increasing  evidences  of 
vigor  and  determination  they  soon  ceased  their  detrac 
tion  and  began  to  work. 

The  campaign  soon  developed  indications  of  alarming 
defections  from  the  Radical  ranks.  Among  the  emigrants 
from  the  North  were  many  respectable  men  who  came 
south  with  missionary  zeal  or  with  honest  business  inten 
tions  ;  and  a  large  number  of  these,  disgusted  with  carpet 
bag  rule,  threatened  to  break  away  from  their  former 
political  affiliations.  Many  negroes,  too,  had  become  dis 
gruntled  and  restive  ;  their  political  dreams  had  not  been 

263 


264  HENRY   BOURLAND 

realized ;  they  had  worked  and  voted  and  obeyed  orders ; 
but  in  some  way  the  white  leaders  had  taken  the  lion's 
share  of  the  offices  and  "de  swag."  The  unknown  extent 
of  these  defections,  therefore,  gave  inspiring  doubt  and 
executive  energy  to  the  contest. 

In  the  South,  even  more  than  in  the  North,  speech- 
making  and  eloquence  were  effective  influences.  And 
though  Bourland  was  well  qualified  for  such  work,  he 
soon  realized  that  success  would  demand  a  mastery  and 
manipulation  of  details.  He  was  inexperienced  in  such 
things  ;  but  being  inventive  and  full  of  theoretical  sug 
gestions,  he  became  a  valuable  aid  to  his  energetic 
lieutenants. 

Ambition  rose  phoenix-like  from  the  ashes  of  his  inac 
tivity.  He  desired  to  become  a  public  figure  in  the  state. 
His  life  was  fired  anew  with  an  impulse  to  play  a  man's 
part  in  civic  affairs.  Many  things  pointed  to  his  success : 
his  family  prestige,  his  war  record,  his  persecution  by 
Parker,  his  isolation  in  the  retirement  of  the  Hall  —  all 
of  these  made  him  a  romantic  figure  which  appealed  to 
the  emotions  of  his  constituents,  and  commanded  a  cer 
tain  chivalric  devotion.  Besides,  he  possessed  a  rare  gift 
of  eloquence. 

He  planned  for  himself  the  career  of  an  orator.  The 
long  years  of  brooding  had  so  intensified  his  personality 
that  from  the  first  speech  he  made  a  signal  impression. 
So,  while  Jacobs  and  Wilson  and  the  rest  worked  "  inside 
the  house,"  as  they  termed  it,  he  and  "  Flue "  Powell 
went  about  the  county,  talking  from  carriages,  stumps, 
and  platforms,  in  towns  and  at  cross-roads.  He  soon  was 
transformed  into  a  happy  man ;  his  life  now  had  an  aim 
and  an  opportunity. 

Parker  became  his  opponent  for  the  legislature.  The 
carpet-bagger,  snorting  at  Bourland's  nomination,  decided 
that  he  must  be  beaten,  and  no  one,  he  knew,  could  beat 
him  so  well  as  himself. 

"  I'm  getting  rusty  on  the  bench,"  he  remarked  to  his 
friends.  "  I  guess  I'll  get  back  to  active  service.  Slate 
me  for  the  legislature." 


BEHIND  CLOSED  DOORS  265 

Parker  had  become  a  strong  leader.  He  had  tireless 
energy  ;  he  possessed  a  genius  for  making  things  cohere  ; 
he  had  a  peculiar  power  over  the  negroes,  who  regarded 
him  as  a  prophet.  This  man,  in  truth,  had  done  much  to 
ameliorate  the  condition  of  the  freedmen  ;  taught  them 
to  look  after  their  own  interests  ;  settled  them  on  patches 
of  land  where  they  could  live  in  independence;  helped 
this  one  by  a  timely  loan ;  attached  others  by  judicious 
gifts ;  and,  more  than  these,  he  had  given  the  blacks  a 
reasonable  share  of  the  spoils  of  office.  One  old  negro 
preacher  called  him,  "  De  sickle  ob  de  Rebelations,"  for, 
said  he,  "he  hab  cum  to  reap  foh  us  de  harves'  ob  de 
airth."  When  Parker  heard  the  title,  he  chuckled. 
"  They  had  better  call  me  Michael,"  he  muttered,  "  for  I 
have  come  to  slay  the  dragon  and  his  kind."  And  with 
that  he  looked  in  the  direction  of  the  Hall. 

Bourland  labored  with  the  ardor  of  a  neophyte.  Dur 
ing  the  campaign  he  saw  but  little  of  his  home.  Often 
he  stayed  in  Brayton  over  night,  and  when  he  was  not 
away  on  a  round  of  rallies,  he  was  usually  found  at  head 
quarters. 

"  We've  got  a  majority  of  fifteen  hundred  to  overcome 
in  this  district,"  he  said,  looking  over  a  census  of  all  the 
qualified  voters.  "  Our  old  friends  will  stand  by  us  pretty 
well,  and  our  problem  is  to  get  enough  recruits  to  over 
come  that  majority  with  a  safe  margin  to  spare.  We 
must  work  over  some  of  the  immigrants  and  negroes,  and 
bring  out  the  Confederate  sulkers.  Of  the  last,  we  ought 
to  get  every  man." 

"  We  can't  get  them  all,"  answered  Jacobs,  with  a  pro 
fane  punctuation.  "  There  are  a  lot  of  these  malingerers, 
skulkers  in  war  and  peace,  who  haven't  got  the  souls  of 
cats." 

"  We  must  wake  them  up  with  brass  bands  and  enthu 
siasm." 

Wilson's  report  of  his  precinct  was  interesting.  "  Dur 
ing  the  last  elections,"  said  he,  "there  have  been  two 
votes,  on  the  average,  for  every  man.  Parker  has  been 
putting  the  niggers  on  double  time.  They  jump  from  one 


266  HENRY  BOURLAND 

house  to  another  like  fleas,  and  they  have  such  common 
names  that  it  is  easy  to  stuff  the  registration  lists." 

"  We  must  watch  him  and  get  an  honest  count,"  said 
Bourland. 

"  You'll  never  beat  him  by  trying  to  play  on  the  square," 
put  in  Jacobs,  flatly.  "  I  tell  you  we've  got  to  come  down 
to  his  school  of  politics." 

"  Oh,  if  we  watch,  we  can  stop  his  frauds,"  protested 
Bourland. 

"No,  you  can't.  He's  too  crafty  and  fearless.  He 
knows  he  can  control  the  courts  if  he  is  caught.  It  takes 
a  thief  to  catch  a  thief." 

"  I  want  to  try  some  of  my  moral  suasion  on  the  blacks." 

"  Well,  Colonel,  it  won't  do  any  harm.  But  then  it 
won't  do  any  good." 

"  They  say,"  drawled  out  Wilson,  "  that  there  is  to  be 
a  resurrection  of  the  white  people  in  this  election.  I 
reckon  there  is.  For  I  know  some  dead  men  who  are 
going  to  vote  our  ticket  in  my  bailiwick." 

"  I  think,"  said  another  man,  "  that  it  is  easier  to  jingle 
a  few  coins  in  the  ears  of  some  of  the  board  of  registra 
tion.  Those  Caesars  will  not  refuse  the  crowns." 

"  Look  here,"  called  out  a  committee  man,  "  suppose 
the  Radical  authorities  decide  that  there  shall  not  be  any 
new  registration.  They  say  the  old  lists  are  good  enough ; 
that  the  sulkers  who  wouldn't  register  before  don't  de 
serve  a  chance  now.  It  may  cost  us  hundreds  of  votes." 

"  Let  them  dare  refuse  it,"  shouted  Powell,  with  a  thump 
of  his  fist. 

"  The  Black  Crook  and  his  chorus  of  villagers  will  do 
anything." 

Powell  held  up  his  hand  for  silence.  One  could  hear 
the  grit  of  his  teeth.  He  spoke  with  a  deliberate  utter 
ance. 

"  If  the  Radical  state  board  refuses  us  a  new  registra 
tion,  and  cheats  us  by  gagging  our  votes,  you  will  hear 
of  —  "  he  paused. 

"  What  ?  "  cried  several,  with  grins  of  knowledge. 

"  Some  mysterious  visitors,"  he  added  in  a  whisper. 


BEHIND  CLOSED  DOORS  267 

Bourland  shook  his  head  deprecatingly. 

"  Even  if  they  do,  and  then  the  case  looks  desperate 
or  even  dubious,"  continued  Powell,  "  there  is  just  one 
thing  to  be  done.  Gentlemen,  we  must  win  this  elec 
tion.  The  niggers  have  got  to  be  kept  away  from  the 
polls.  We  had  better  begin  to  discuss  ways  and  means 
now.  Colonel,"  said  he,  turning  to  Bourland,  "you 
needn't  stay.  Go  home  and  write  up  some  more  of  your 
good  speeches.  You  needn't  mix  up  in  this." 

"No,"  replied  Bourland;  "I'll  stick  to  the  men  who 
are  sticking  by  me.  I'm  not  going  to  hide  in  the  woods 
while  you  fellows  are  on  the  firing  line." 

"  Well,  then,  here  goes  !  I've  taken  counsel  with  some 
of  the  stalwarts,  but  the  details  have  not  been  published 
in  the  newspapers.  If  we  find  ourselves  in  a  tight  pass, 
we  shall  hire  a  few  magicians  who  are  going  to  conjure  up 
some  spirits,  members  of  an  ancient  and  honorable  order 
—  let  me  see  —  what  is  the  name  ?  " 

He  looked  at  them  with  a  smile  of  amused  banter. 

"  The  Order  of  the  White  Camelias,"  suggested  one. 

"  The  Order  of  the  Pallid  Faces,"  offered  a  second. 

"  The  Knights  of  the  Invisible  Empire,"  said  a  third. 

All  three  spoke  gravely,  yet  with  mock  gravity. 

"  No,  that's  not  it,"  Powell  went  on.  "  The  last  one  is 
most  like  it ;  there  is  a  K  in  the  name." 

"  The  colonel  is  a  good  guesser.  You  can  tell  it  in  his 
face." 

"  I  don't  like  it,  boys,"  said  Bourland,  who  had  reddened 
visibly  at  the  open  secret. 

" Some  morning,"  declared  Powell,  solemnly,  "there  will 
be  an  article  in  the  papers  saying  that  the  Ku  Klux  Klan 
has  appeared  in  Lacamac  County.  That  will  be  a  pre 
liminary,  a  curtain  raiser,  as  they  call  it  in  the  theatre. 
Then  to  prove  the  truth  of  the  article,  there  will  be  that 
week  a  few  nightly  visitations,  —  no  harm  done,  —  just  a 
good  scare  for  those  who  can  easily  spread  the  news.  If 
that  doesn't  make  the  teeth  of  some  niggers  chatter,  and  if 
that  doesn't  take  away  their  desire  to  vote,  then  I  don't 
know  a  nigger  when  I  see  one." 


268  HENRY   BOURLAND 

"I've  got  a  much  better  substitute.  It  will  be  more 
effective  and  less  harmful,"  said  Bourland.  "  We  don't 
want  any  of  those  infernal  atrocities  they've  had  in  the 
other  states."  He  unfolded  a  scheme  of  his  own,  which 
involved  a  travelling  circus. 

"  It  will  cost  too  much,  Colonel;  still,  we  might  use  that 
too.  Two  shots  are  better  than  one." 

"  The  farmers  must  be  instructed  to  clean  their  guns 
right  before  their  men  on  the  day  preceding  the  election, 
and  they  must  talk  a  good  deal  about  shooting  and  riots 
at  the  polls.  That,  I  think,  will  scare  some  of  the  niggers 
and  keep  them  away,  or  I'm  much  mistaken,"  said  Wilson. 
"  That  influence  can  be  used  by  the  farmers  better  than  by 
the  men  in  towns." 

"I  think  the  colonel's  suggestion  about  the  circus  is 
worth  a  trial,"  remarked  Jacobs,  reflectively.  "  I'm  sorry 
we  have  to  resort  to  such  tricks.  But  it  is  the  most  harm 
less  one  I  can  think  of." 

Then  Bourland  explained  his  ruse  in  more  detail.  "  If 
we  must  come  down  to  these  things,  I  suppose  we  must. 
Don't  worry  about  me.  I'm  aboard  the  ship,  and  as  I 
have  said,  I'll  sail  or  hang  with  the  crew.  I  won't  flop 
overboard  like  a  fool." 

Nevertheless  he  had  qualms  of  conscience.  If  he  was 
aboard  the  ship,  he  felt  like  a  landlubber  in  a  storm.  He 
was  by  no  means  at  peace  with  his  principles,  and  the 
proof  was  that  he  continually  resorted  to  repetitions  of 
that  logical  sorites  for  his  own  personal  consolation. 
Even  then  he  knew  that  he  was  a  casuist. 

"  It  is  only  for  this  one  time,"  he  pleaded  in  reply  to 
the  accusing  monitor.  "  We  are  forced  to  it  in  self- 
defence." 

As  the  campaign  progressed,  it  developed  a  great  deal 
of  bitterness.  The  situation  was  very  dubious,  and  the 
Conservatives  saw  that  to  win  they  must  make  use  of 
every  possible  means. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

A   VISITATION   OF   THE   KU   KLUX 

EVERY  day  Bourland  received  letters  from  Northern 
immigrants,  declaring  their  disgust  at  the  present  admin 
istration  and  promising  their  support.  But  these  acquisi 
tions  were  probably  offset  by  natives  of  the  lowest  class, 
who,  lured  by  pledges  of  office,  were  turning  scalawag. 
It  became  more  and  more  manifest,  as  the  situation 
developed,  that  the  result  hung  upon  the  negro  vote. 

Bourland  still  clung  to  the  hope  that  moral  suasion 
could  accomplish  something  among  the  freedmen.  The 
others  laughed  at  the  idea. 

"  But  go  ahead,  Colonel,"  said  Jacobs.  "  It  can't  do 
any  harm,  and  it  may  do  good.  It  will  give  respecta 
bility  to  our  campaign." 

So,  about  two  weeks  before  election  day,  Bourland 
announced  a  rally  on  the  Court  House  green  for  the 
"Men  of  Color."' 

The  Union  League  secretly  gave  orders  to  the  negroes 
to  stay  away,  but  in  spite  of  that,  when  the  night  came, 
there  was  a  fair-sized  audience  of  freedmen. 

As  Bourland  arose  to  speak  a  burly  negro  shouted  out, 
"  Three  cheers  for  Parker,"  and  the  first  moments  were 
marked  by  turbulence  and  endeavors  on  the  part  of  a  few 
to  disorganize  the  meeting.  And  it  was  not  long  before  it 
became  evident  that  the  Radicals  had  arranged  to  silence 
him.  The  big,  black  fellow,  who  was  a  deputy  sheriff  of 
Parker's  appointment,  continued  to  make  irritating  com 
ments  and  ejaculations,  and  soon  a  brass  band,  trailing  a 
motley  crowd,  came  up  the  street  and  played  "  Marching 
through  Georgia."  The  noise  drowned  the  speaker's  voice. 
Some  one,  afterward  believed  to  be  the  deputy  sheriff, 


270 


HENEY  BOURLAND 


fired  a  pistol,  and  the  negroes  scattered  like  scared 
chickens. 

Bourland  came  down  from  the  stand  as  dejected  as  a 
schoolboy  who  had  forgotten  his  piece. 

"  Well,  Colonel,"  said  Jacobs,  with  a  laugh,  "  what  are 
the  results  of  moral  suasion  ?  " 

"  Failure,"  answered  Bourland,  sullenly. 

"There  are  other  ways  open  to  us." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  now  we  shall  have  to  try  them." 

"What's  the  name  of  that  black  buck  who  fired  the 
pistol  ?  "  asked  Wilson. 

"  That  was  Simpson.  He's  one  of  Parker's  constables," 
replied  one  of  the  committee  men.  "  He  lives  on  a  little 
place  about  a  mile  out  of  town." 

"  Simpson,  eh  ?  I  reckon  he'd  better  get  a  basket  and 
hide  himself  among  the  bulrushes  like  Moses  for  a  while." 

Four  days  later  the  readers  of  Northern  newspapers 
found,  under  varying  headlines,  the  following  special 
despatch :  — 


BRAYTON,  VA.  — 

The  elections  in  the  South  are  bringing  on  the 
usual  persecutions  of  the  freedmen.  The  Ku  Klux 
Klan  has  appeared  in  Virginia.  On  Wednesday 
night  an  inoffensive  and  industrious  negro,  named 
Jasper  Simpson,  was  taken  by  a  band  of  men  in 
disguise,  after  they  had  battered  down  the  door 
of  his  cabin,  and  was  tied  to  a  tree,  after  which 
he  was  beaten  into  insensibility  with  switches  cut 
from  briers.  The  savages  drove  his  wife  and 
children  at  the  point  of  the  gun,  without  clothes, 
into  the  woods.  His  cabin  was  then  set  fire  to. 
The  victim  was  left  bound  to  a  tree,  one  man,  on 
riding  off,  firing  his  shot-gun  at  his  lower  extremi 
ties.  Simpson  was  brought  unconscious  to  Bray- 
ton  next  morning,  and  it  is  likely  he  will  die.  No 
arrests  have  been  made.  The  suspected  cause  of 
this  outrage  was  his  political  affiliation,  he  being 
an  active  supporter  of  the  Radical  party,  and  a 
leader  among  the  men  of  color* 


A  VISITATION   OF  THE   KU   KLUX  271 

The  North,  naturally,  formed  its  opinion  of  the  affair 
from  this  statement,  which  was  only  half  the  truth. 

The  actual  facts  were  these.  On  Wednesday  night, 
Simpson's  cabin  was  surrounded  by  a  band  of  masked 
men.  They  knocked  on  his  door  and  told  him  to  come 
out;  when  he  refused,  they  broke  it  open,  dragged  him 
out,  and  tied  him  to  a  tree.  He  was  given  thirty  lashes 
on  the  back  with  switches  cut  from  a  willow,  and  he  was 
told  that  if  he  didn't  let  politics  alone  he  would  fare  far 
worse.  He  was  then  left  in  a  subdued  but  not  uncon 
scious  condition.  No  man  fired  a  gun  at  him,  his  cabin 
was  not  burned,  and  his  wife  and  children  were  not 
molested.  Simpson  was  seen  walking  the  next  day, 
though  somewhat  stiffly,  in  the  streets  of  Bray  ton. 

Public  opinion  in  Lacamac  was  biassed,  or  rather  af 
fected,  by  Simpson's  known  character  and  previous  rec 
ord.  Though  a  public  official,  he  had  been  the  chief 
actor  in  half  a  dozen  drunken  rows  ;  he  was  suspected 
of  complicity  in  a  barn  burning,  and  he  was  known  to 
have  made  the  remark  in  a  political  speech  that  "  matches 
only  cost  five  cents  a  box."  In  addition  he  had  been  the 
prime  mover  in  the  breaking  up  of  the  Conservative  rally. 

Though  the  Northern  papers  published  fuming  edi 
torials  upon  the  incident,  the  Southerners  of  Lacamac 
regarded  the  matter  with  indifference.  They  were  closer 
to  the  truth,  and  it  affected  them  about  as  much  as  the 
casual  sight  of  a  shooting  star.  The  managers  of  the 
Conservative  campaign,  indeed,  endeavored  to  spread 
the  report  as  widely  as  possible  among  the  negroes,  hop 
ing  it  would  inspire  them  with  fear. 

But  the  greatest  terror  spread  among  the  blacks  after 
the  beginning  of  the  pantomime  visitations  of  the  Ku  Klux. 
These,  though  less  harmful,  were  more  effective.  For 
the  visits,  to  their  superstitious  minds,  did  not  come  from 
the  living,  but  from  the  dead.  All  through  the  week  pre 
ceding  election,  according  to  rumor,  the  country  round 
about  was  infested  at  night  time  with  wandering  spirits, 
who  brought  direful  warnings  to  the  negroes. 

One  evening,  on  his  way  home,  Bourland  met  a  poor 


272  HENKY   BOUBLAND 

darky  in  the  road  completely  scared  out  of  his  wits.  If 
he  had  not  known  the  baselessness  of  the  man's  fear,  the 
sight  of  his  face,  ghastly  in  the  moonlight,  would  have 
horrified  him.  The  man  flung  out  two  imploring  arms. 

"  Save  me,  Massa  Bouiian',  "  he  cried.  "  Dey'se  after 
me." 

"  Who  ?  "  asked  Bourland,  checking  his  horse. 

44  De  Kluckers,"  he  stammered,  looking  fearfully  over 
his  shoulders. 

When  Bourland  had  calmed  him  somewhat,  he  recog 
nized  him  as  a  tinker  who  lived  by  himself  about  two 
miles  away  from  the  Hall.  After  some  time  the  man  was 
sufficiently  composed  to  tell  his  story. 

"  I  wuz  a-settin'  in  my  cabin,"  he  began,  "  in  de  ole  arm 
chair  wif  de  cushion  wut  Miss'  Lanter  gib  me  at  de  house 
cleanin".  I  mus'  a  bin  a-sleepin',  kase  de  ole  pipe  wuz  on 
de  flo'ah,  an'  it  nebba  drops  out  wen  I'se  awaik,  I  kin  tell 
you.  I  suttinly  done  a  fit  o'  work  ter-day,  an'  I  wuz 
tuckered  out.  All  at  once  comes  a  rap,  rap,  rap,  free 
times  on  de  doah.  I  heered  it,  but  it  jes'  did'n  waik  me 
up,  so  I  sot  dar  stun  still.  Den  it  cum  louder'n  quicker, 
jes'  sof  en  titterin'  laik  a  woodpecker.  Dat  air  done 
woke  me  up  all  de  way.  I  rubs  my  eyes  an'  I  see  de 
taller  dip  a-sizzlin'  low.  '  I  reckon  hit's  dat  air  Spot 
Clark  agen,'  sez  I.  'But  den,'  thinks  I  insideaways,  4he 
wuddent  rap  ;  he'd  jes'  cum  a-struttin'  in  ez  ef  de  hull 
place  wuz  his'n.'  So  I  goes  an'  opens  de  doah,  an'  oh, 
Gawd  !  Mass'  Bourlan',  right  dar,  befoh  de  las'  day  ob 
wrath  an'  kingdom  cum,  dar  wuz  a  man,  a-standin'  befoh 
me,  wif  a  white  hat  on  laik  a  church  steeple,  an'  a  cloak 
aroun'  him  white  ez  a  fiel'  o'  buckwheat.  I  wuz  skeered, 
I  tell  you,  an'  my  laigs  went  a-floppin'  jes'  laik  ole  mammy's 
bes'  print  gown  in  de  win'.  4  Get  me  a  bucket  o'  watah,' 
he  sez,  jes'  holler-like,  ez  if  he  wuz  a  dead  mans.  An'  I 
goes  an'  I  fetches  it  quick,  suah,  foh  I  seed  a  hoss  a-stannin' 
by  de  gate.  Wen  I  got  de  watah,  I  brings  it  respectful  to 
de  hoss.  4  Bring  it  to  me,'  he  sez  ;  4  is  you  a  blame  fool  ?  ' 
I  bringed  it  to  him,  an'  foh  Gawd,  massa,  may  de  Lawd 
burn  me  in  de  pit  o'  fire,  ef  he  didn'  drink  down  dat  air 


"'Get  me  a  bucket  o'  watah,'  he  says,  jes  holler  like  ez  ef  he 
wuz  a  dead  mans," 


A  VISITATION   OF  THE  KU  KLUX  273 

bucket  to  de  las'  drop,  drier'n  ef  a  sponge  hed  sopped  it. 
'Bring  me  sum  moah  watah,'  he  sez,  an'  I  fotched  him 
anudder  pailful,  an'  he  drinked  it  all  up  again,  jes'  ez  clean 
ez  a  hen.  Den  sez  he,  a-sighin'  laik,  4  Dat's  de  firs'  watah 
I  hab  drunk  sence  de  battle.'  —  4Wuz  you  in  de  battles, 
massa  ? '  sez  I,  a-stannin'  back  to  get  out  ob  his  reach. 
4  Yes,'  sez  he.  4 1  wuz  killed  in  de  Wilderness,  an'  I  wuz 
buried  at  de  foot  ob  a  big  pin  oak,  an'  I  neber  got  a  good 
drink  kase  de  tree  roots  allus  sucked  away  the  watah  fum 
me.'  Den  he  looked  all  aroun'  ez  if  he  wuz  tryin'  to  see 
whar  he  wuz,  an'  den  he  sez,  '  You'se  Pink  Trotter,  airn't 
you  ? '  — 4  Ya-as,  sir,'  sez  I ;  4  an'  Fse  a  berry  good  nigger, 
too.'  —  4I  know  you  is,'  sez  he  ;  4  dat's  why  I  kem  all  de 
way  fum  de  Wilderness  heah.  Yoh  mudder  wuz  my  ole 
mammy,  Pink.  I  used  to  lib  aroun'  heah.  I  cum  to  tell 
you  to  stay  in  yoh  cabin  all  day  nex'  Tuesday,  an'  doan' 
you  try  to  do  no  fool  votin'.  We  dead  mens  in  de  groun', 
we  hears  all  wut's  goin'  on  in  de  world,  an'  I  heerd  a  man 
say  'round  here  dat  ef  dat  air  Pink  Trotter  tries  to  bring 
any  suffrage  to  de  ballot  box,  he  wuz  a-gwine  to  shoot  him 
befoh  he  got  back  to  his  cabin.  Bless  me,  sez  I,  dat's  my 
ole  mammy's  boy  Pink  wut  he's  a-talkin'  about.  I  reckon 
I'll  hab  to  go  gib  him  a  warnin'.  Ef  he's  a  respec'ful 
nigger  he'll  gib  me  all  I  wants  to  drink ;  ef  he  won'  do 
dat,  I'll  let  him  go  to  hell  an'  get  shot.'  Den,  Mass'  Bour- 
lan',  he  turns  to  de  hoss  an'  pats  him,  an'  sez, 4  He's  a  dead 
hoss,  too ;  I'll  show  you,  Pink,  whar  he  wuz  hit  wif  a 
shell.'  An'  I  puts  my  han'  on  de  spot,  all  sore  laik,  an' 
crusty  wif  de  dry  blood.  4  He  cyarn't  see  none.  He 
cyarn't  see  dat  air  moon  no  moah  dan'  a  blin'  bat,'  he  sez. 
4  Wen  you  pass  yoh  han'  befoh  his  eyes  he  doan'  blink 
none.'  Den  he  look  aroun'  agin,  an'  axe  me,  4  Which  way 
am  de  souf,  Pink  ? '  An'  I  pints  out  de  hump  o'  ches'- 
nuts  which  is  to  de  souf  ob  my  cabin.  4 1  cyarn'  see.  no 
souf,  Pink,'  sez  he.  4  Whar's  de  east  ?  '  An'  I  p'ints  out 
Mass'  Trymier's  barn,  an'  he  say,  4 1  cyarn'  see  no  east, 
nuther.  I  reckon  I  mus'  be  losin'  my  eyes  a-layin'  in  de 
groun'.'  Den  he  go  on  a-sighin'  agin,  an'  say,  4Well, 
Pink,  you  min?  whut  a  good  frien'  tells  you.  Doan'  you 


274  HENRY  BOURLAND 

do  no  fool  votin'  unless  you  say  yoh  prayers  an'  meek  yoh 
peace  wif  Gawd  befoh  han'.  Now  I  mus'  go.  I  mus'  ride 
two  hundred  an'  twenty-one  mile  befoh  de  mawnin'.  Ef 
I  doan'  get  back  befoh  de  sun,  I  cyarn'  cum  out  ob  de 
grabe  agin  foh  twenty-fibe  yeahs.  You  rec'lect  I  cum  all 
dis  way  to  tell  you  yoh  own  good.  You  stay  in  yoh  cabin 
all  day  nex'  Tuesday,  an'  doan'  you  go  down  to  Brayton. 
Ef  you  do,  I'll  hear  ob  it,  an'  I'll  come  back  an'  grab  you, 
foh  I  ain't  a-doin'  dis  yere  kin'  o'  kindness  foh  ongrateful 
niggers.  Will  you  stay  to  home,  Pink  ? '  — '  Ya-as,  s'r,' 
sez  I,  '  I'll  stay  to  home,  massa.  I  won't  get  out'n  o'  my 
baid  all  de  day,  suah.  Tank  you,  massa,  kindly,'  sez  I,  so 
skeered  dat  I  could  feel  my  own  blood  a-turnin'  sour- 
laik.  4  Den  shake  han's  on  dat  promise,'  sez  he,  an'  I  put 
my  han'  to  his'n,  an'  his  han'  wuz  all  bones  an'  nothin' 
else.  My  hairt  jumped  laik  a  hop-toad  out'n  de  grass 
wen  I  tech  him,  an'  I  close  my  eyes  an'  dassent  open  'em 
till  I  heerd  him  ridin'  away  wif  a  shriek  jes'  laik  a  laughin' 
owl.  4 1  stay  to  home,  mass'  sojer,'  I  called  aftah  him,  wif 
my  eyes  still  shet.  Den  I  went  back  inter  de  cabin,  but 
I  couldn'  sleep  none.  I  heerd  a  moanin'  an'  a  groanin', 
till  I  couldn'  stan'  it  no  longah,  den  I  scut  an'  run  till  I 
seed  you." 

"  Come  up  and  sleep  in  my  barn,"  said  Bourland. 
"There  are  no  Kluckers  around  there." 

He  felt  sorry  for  the  poor  trembling  darky.  He  knew, 
too,  that  he  was  a  party  to  this  scheme  of  intimidation, 
and  that  with  a  few  words  of  explanation  he  could  allay 
the  man's  terror  somewhat. 

"It's  pretty  hard  on  the  poor  devils,"  he  murmured; 
"and  yet  I  don't  see  any  help  for  it.  Their  so-called 
friends,  with  the  gift  of  the  ballot,  have  been  their  worst 
enemies." 

Pink  Trotter's  experience  was  only  one  of  many.  In 
one  week  the  mysterious  Knights  of  the  Invisible  Empire 
had  raised  the  superstitious  apprehensions  of  the  negroes 
beyond  the  reach  of  any  reassuring  argument.  They 
could  not  work  so  well  in  the  villages,  but  in  the  out 
lying  districts,  where  the  blacks  lived  in  isolation,  their 


A   VISITATION   OF   THE   KU   KLUX  275 

power  was  almost  supreme.  Parker  and  his  agents  tried 
to  quiet  their  fears  and  ridicule  with  the  truth  the  "  warn 
ings"  and  "messages."  But  reasoning  is  futile  against 
superstition,  and  the  dread  of  thirteen  at  a  table  is,  in 
these  enlightened  days,  a  proof  of  it. 

While  all  this  was  going  on  a  circus,  or  rather  a  make 
shift  for  such,  appeared  in  Brayton.  With  a  brass  band, 
a  few  animals,  some  spurious  bearded  ladies,  tattooed 
men,  and  some  old  paraphernalia,  it  gathered  a  crowd  of 
negroes  and  decoy  white  men.  The  admission  was  half 
a  dollar,  and  in  default  of  that  sum  the  management 
announced  that  it  would  accept  the  registration  certifi 
cates  of  voters  as  pledges  of  future  payment.  The  blacks 
vacillated  between  the  circus  and  the  vote,  with  the 
expected  result.  The  show  made  a  tour  of  the  county, 
and  after  a  week  the  manager  turned  several  hundred  cer 
tificates  over  to  the  Conservative  committee  at  Brayton. 

"  It  was  a  bright  idea  of  yours,  Colonel,"  said  Powell, 
tearing  up  the  papers.  "  But  it  has  been  expensive." 

"  We've  got  them  now,"  remarked  Wilson.  "  All  we 
need  to  do  is  to  watch  the  ballot  boxes  and  get  an  honest 
count." 

"  How  about  your  dead  men  ?  "  asked  Bourland. 

"  They  are  all  registered  and  ready  to  rise,"  he  said 
solemnly. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

THE  POT  AND  THE  KETTLE  ARE  BOTH  BLACK 

WHEN  election  day  finally  came  the  atmosphere  seemed 
impregnated  with  an  explosive  fluid. 

The  preliminaries  had  developed  a  virulent  tenseness 
of  feeling.  The  county  had  been  thoroughly  canvassed, 
and  word  had  been  passed  around  among  all  the  men  of 
grit  and  backbone  "to  hang  around  the  polls  and  bring 
their  speakers."  Both  parties  were  determined  to  win; 
and  it  appeared  unlikely,  from  the  threats,  that  all  of  the 
electors  would  survive  the  day. 

Parker  made  strenuous  efforts  to  nullify  the  influence 
of  the  "  Ku  Klux. "  He  prepared  the  constabulary  for  ready 
service,  swore  in  extra  deputies,  and  armed  the  town 
negroes,  many  of  them  under  the  pretence  of  enlisting 
militia.  By  this  means  he  hoped  to  restore  confidence  in 
the  timid  and  the  intimidated.  He  relied  greatly,  how 
ever,  on  the  secret  manipulation  of  the  ballot  boxes,  and 
a  system  of  repeating. 

The  Conservative  committee  insisted  that  Bourland 
should  remain  indoors  all  day ;  and  though  he  protested, 
he  at  last  consented  to  stay  at  headquarters. 

"It  was  your  place  to  do  the  talking,"  they  said,  "and 
you've  done  it  well."  Indeed  he  had,  so  much  so  that 
he  had  received  many  invitations,  some  of  which  he 
accepted,  to  address  rallies  outside  of  his  own  county. 

"  There  is  going  to  be  some  rough  work.  You  keep  out 
of  it.  We'll  do  the  watching,"  added  Wilson,  as  the  men 
prepared  to  leave  headquarters.  "See  here,  I've  got 
something  to  show  you.  It  may  do  something  for  us  before 
the  trick  is  discovered." 

He  unfolded  a  ballot  of  the  Radical  color  with  Lincoln's 

276 


POT  AND  KETTLE  ARE  BOTH  BLACK   277 

head  as  the  emblem,  but  beneath  were  printed  the  names 
of  the  Conservative  ticket.  "Parker's  instructions  to  the 
niggers  who  can't  read  were  to  vote  the  pink  ticket  with 
Lincoln's  head.  I've  got  a  good  many  of  these  around 
among  them,"  he  explained. 

Wilson  went  to  watch  the  polling  booth  near  the  Court 
House. 

A  gang  of  Union  Leaguers,  white  and  black,  were 
crowding  around  it.  Conspicuous  among  them  was 
Simpson,  the  "inoffensive  and  industrious,"  of  Northern 
notoriety. 

A  negro  came  up  to  vote.  He  was  compelled  to  pass 
through  a  pair  of  parallel  bars  to  the  ballot  box.  Half 
way  there  he  was  stopped  by  a  Union  Leaguer,  and  asked 
to  show  his  ticket.  The  man  hesitated,  but  finally  let 
the  inquisitor  see  it. 

"Dis  ticket  ain't  no  good,"  the  Leaguer  said,  tearing- 
it  up.  "  Heah's  yoh  ticket.  You  vote  dat  ticket.  Dat's 
de  right  one,"  and  he  shoved  a  Radical  ballot  into  his 
hand.  "Comeheah,  boys,"  he  called  to  the  others,  and 
they  crowded  around  the  voter. 

"Do  you  want  a  Conservative  ballot?"  asked  Wilson, 
pushing  his  way  toward  the  man. 

"  No  he  doan' ;  he  dassent,"  cried  three  or  four  Leaguers. 

The  negro  didn't  say  anything;  he  looked  around  at  the 
menacing  faces  of  those  who  were  his  natural  associates ; 
then  he  wavered  and  broke.  "I'll  teck  a  Radical  ticket," 
he  said,  and  after  he  had  put  it  in  the  box,  the  Leaguers 
gathered  around  him  and  slapped  him  approvingly.  Wil 
son  went  up  to  the  constable  stationed  at  this  booth.  "  I 
want  those  men  kept  away  from  the  polls.  They  have  no 
right  there.  It's  against  the  law,"  he  said  with  vigor. 

"Keep  away  yourself,"  answered  the  constable,  who 
was  a  scalawag.  "I  can't  keep  them  away  all  alone,"  he 
added  apologetically.  "I'll  have  to  wait  until  they  send 
me  some  help." 

But  Parker,  under  the  pretence  of  protecting  property, 
had  scattered  the  officials  so  that  they  were  far  apart, 
and,  for  the  early  hours  of  the  day  at  least,  the  Leaguers 


278  HENRY  BOURLAND 

had  an   opportunity  to  do  as  they  pleased  with  negro 
Conservatives. 

"I'll  help  you  drive  them  off,"  said  Wilson  to  the 
officer. 

"You  haven't  got  any  authority  to  do  that,"  he  replied. 

"I'll  soon  get  some  authority,"  he  answered  hotly. 
"Here,  Jim,"  he  called  to  one  of  his  friends.  "You  go 
get  half  a  dozen  men,  and  bring  them  down  here,  and  tell 
them  to  come  loaded  and  ready  for  work." 

In  fifteen  minutes  they  came.  At  sight  of  them  the 
Leaguers  moved  away  to  a  safe  distance ;  but  they  con 
tinued  their  work  by  challenging  every  negro,  and  threat 
ening  him  with  vengeance  if  he  did  not  vote  the  Radical 
ticket. 

Some,  however,  they  could  not  reach,  for  they  were 
driven  in  by  their  white  employers,  and  led  to  the  ballot 
box,  and  supplied  with  Conservative  votes. 

Wilson  had  the  right  to  challenge,  and  therefore  he  was 
entitled  to  be  near  the  booth.  While  on  duty  he  noticed 
one  of  the  judges,  as  he  put  a  ballot  into  the  box,  give  a 
peculiar  twist  with  his  thumb  which  creased  the  paper. 
He  watched  more  closely,  and  discovered  a  black  substance 
under  the  man's  thumb  nail. 

"See  here,  friend,"  he  remarked  dryly,  "don't  you  think 
that  dirty  work  is  soiling  your  hands?" 

The  man  started  and  thrust  his  hand  into  his  pocket. 
He  had  been  marking  votes  with  a  bit  of  graphite,  and 
these,  at  the  count,  could  be  challenged  and  disqualified. 

"Watch  him,  Frank,"  said  Wilson  to  the  Conservative 
judge  in  a  loud  whisper  after  some  words  with  him.  "  If 
he  does  that  again,  have  him  arrested." 

The  Radical  thought  that  a  droll  suggestion. 

In  the  meantime  some  of  Wilson's  "dead  men"  were 
voting  by  proxy.  The  proxies  were  usually  farm  hands, 
who  went  around  with  their  reputed  employers,  at  differ 
ent  times,  and  voted  under  names  that,  by  some  means, 
had  been  put  on  the  registration  lists. 

By  two  o'clock  it  was  apparent  that  the  negro  vote  was 
light,  and  the  white  vote  unusually  heavy.  The  Knights 


POT  AND  KETTLE  AKE  BOTH  BLACK    279 

of  the  Invisible  Empire  had  done  effective  service  for  their 
cause.  Scores  of  negroes,  living  on  their  small  farms, 
never  left  their  boundaries  all  day.  They  preferred  not 
to  vote  rather  than  run  any  risks. 

By  three  o'clock  Bourland,  from  reports  and  indications, 
felt  reasonably  certain  that  he  would  be  elected. 

When  Parker  was  told  of  the  ruse  of  the  Lincoln 
emblem  on  the  Conservative  tickets,  and  when  he  found 
how  many  of  his  supporters  were  remaining  away  from 
the  polls,  he  realized  that  his  chance  was  desperate.  He 
became  furious. 

"They  are  cheating  me  out  of  my  rights,"  he  shouted, 
jumping  up  and  shaking  his  fist.  "  Go  get  wagons,  carts, 
anything,  and  drive  around  the  country.  Pile  the  niggers 
into  them  and  bring  them  here.  Take  your  whips,  and 
lay  it  on  to  their  backs.  I'll  keep  the  polls  open  two 
hours  longer.  Send  that  order  off  by  telegraph  all  around 
the  county.  I'm  judge  here,  and  I'll  make  it  go.  Take 
word  to  Colonel  Rippen  to  get  out  the  militia  to  enforce 
it." 

He  sent  half  a  dozen  of  his  underlings,  in  different 
directions,  with  his  dictatorial  commands. 

The  streets  of  Brayton,  by  this  time,  were  full  of 
people.  The  saloons  had  been  the  centres  of  congestion 
as  well  as  the  polls,  and  some  of  the  men  were  getting 
into  ugly  arguments.  Several  riots  occurred,  and  there 
was  some  shooting,  but  with  little  damage.  The  Conserva 
tives  felt  so  assured  that  they  committed  few  breaches  of 
the  peace,  though  they  were  prepared  to  do  so,  if  necessary. 
In  this  electoral  struggle  they  meant  to  take  the  offensive, 
yes,  even  to  be  revolutionary. 

Toward  evening  some  of  Parker's  vehicles  came  strag 
gling  into  town,  bringing  a  few  conscript  voters.  The 
Conservatives,  now  feeling  very  confident,  and  seeing  that 
the  reinforcements  would  be  very  slight,  made  sport  of 
Parker's  method  of  getting  out  his  full  vote.  They  ban 
tered  the  tardy  negroes  with  comments  like:  "Lay  for  him 
when  he  goes  back;  "  "  Mark  him  for  a  dead  one; "  "Say 
good-by  to  yoh  pappy,  chile." 


280  HENRY   BOURLAND 

But  when  the  order  came  to  keep  the  polls  open  beyond 
the  legal  time,  they  began  to  collect  in  ominous  force,  and 
to  look  to  their  weapons.  Quickly  organizing,  they  went 
in  detachments  to  the  polls,  and  threatened  to  shoot  any 
judge  who  should  receive  a  ballot  after  the  specified  hour 
of  closing.  The  militia,  an  ineffective  organization  in  a 
real  crisis,  made  a  show  of  driving  the  citizens  away.  A 
few  shots  were  exchanged,  two  men  were  wounded,  but  a 
battle  was  averted ;  for  the  courage  of  the  soldiers  faltered, 
and  they  broke,  leaving  the  whites  in  possession  of  the 
ballot  boxes.  How  many  votes  were  stuffed  into  them 
during  this  commotion,  no  one,  not  even  the  stuffers  them 
selves,  could  accurately  report.  But  the  election  closed 
at  the  appointed  time. 

Several  hours  after  nightfall  the  returns  began  to  come 
in.  By  ten  o'clock  Bourland  had  received  reports  from 
nearly  all  the  districts  in  his  county ;  and  he  found  that 
he  had  been  elected  by  two  thousand  majority,  at  least. 
He  wished  that  it  had  been  less,  for  on  the  face  of  such 
a  large  majority  in  his  favor  the  evidence  of  fraud  was 
unmistakable. 

"We've  got  a  fat  margin  in  our  county  to  offset  the 
scamps  elsewhere,  if  the  vote  for  governor  should  be  close," 
remarked  Powell,  with  great  satisfaction. 

"Now  that  the  game  is  over,  let  us  go  wash  up.  I  feel 
dirty,"  said  Bourland,  rubbing  his  hands  with  an  air  of 
meditative  seriousness. 

"I  don't,"  responded  Powell.  "I  just  feel  that  I  have 
knocked  out  my  man  with  rules  and  regulations  of  his 
own  making." 

"Well,  I  think  it  is  rather  dirty  business,"  said  Wil 
son.  "It's  like  pig-sticking,  only  in  this  case  I  really 
enjoy  hearing  the  pig  squeal." 

Bourland  thanked  all  the  men  who  had  worked  for  him 
so  faithfully.  In  the  deeps  of  his  feelings  he  was  unspeak 
ably  grateful.  But  when  the  crowd  began  to  pour  into 
headquarters  with  congratulations,  and  the  brass  band, 
followed  by  a  stream  of  shouters,  came  up  the  street,  and 
the  people  below  cried  out  for  a  speech ;  when  the  moment 


POT  AND  KETTLE  ABE  BOTH  BLACK     281 

of  jubilation  arrived,  and  that  of  doubt,  with  its  stimulat 
ing  excitement,  had  passed,  he  was  possessed  with  a  desire 
to  slink  home. 

He  went  out  on  the  balcony,  nevertheless,  and  made  a 
speech.  It  was  not  a  particularly  felicitous  one,  yet  it 
called  forth  great  enthusiasm.  But  that  was,  indeed,  an 
occasion  for  enthusiasm  in  Virginia,  for  something  more 
than  mere  hurrah.  As  the  crowd  in  the  street  responded 
to  his  mention  of  the  "end  of  carpet-bag  rule,"  it  was 
borne  in  upon  him  that  the  applause  came  with  a  certain 
glad  seriousness,  with  the  joy  of  a  release  from  humilia 
tion.  His  nature  rang  as  with  a  lyric  triumph  of  victory. 

And  as  he  stood  there  before  them,  two  beings,  a  candi 
date-elect  of  suave  speech  and  a  secret  self,  he  felt  as 
proud  as  a  knight  of  old,  who,  in  the  lists,  amid  the  great 
ring  of  human  faces,  had  won  his  lady's  favor.  Yes, 
while  he  spoke  to  the  crowd,  his  secret  self  declared  that 
once  again  he  could  call  himself  his  father's  son.  He  was 
an  incapable  no  longer;  he  had  regained  his  birthright. 
He  was  once  more  the  leader  of  the  people  —  his  people. 

But  when,  after  midnight,  the  excitement  was  over, 
and  he  found  himself  riding  homeward  all  alone,  a  reac 
tion  came.  He  was  not  joyous  at  all;  he  was  depressed, 
even  melancholy,  and  vexed  with  remorse.  He  had 
regained  his  prestige,  the  external  lustre  of  it  at  any  rate. 
Yet  some  inward  pang  plagued  him  with  the  sense  that 
his  character  was  no  longer  without  blame.  He  had  lost 
something.  He  had  stepped  down  to  a  lower  level  of 
manhood.  He  had  recovered  the  lost  prestige  by  bribery, 
padded  lists,  false  ballots ;  by  the  intimidation  of  helpless 
blacks  through  the  fear  of  the  shot-gun  and  supernatural 
visitations :  in  a  word,  by  breaking  the  law. 

"It's  done  now,  Lance,  old  fellow,"  he  murmured  in 
the  hearing  of  his  horse.  "I  don't  regret  it,  on  the  whole. 
I  should  do  it  again  for  the  same  cause.  But  it's  mean 
business,  and  we'll  keep  clear  of  it  in  the  future,  won't 
we,  Launcelot?"  He  patted  the  animal's  neck  affection 
ately.  On  many  a  ride,  during  the  campaign,  the  creature 
had  been  the  dumb,  sympathetic  auditor  of  his  monologues. 


282  HENRY  BOUELAND 

Bourland  saw  the  yellow  glint  of  the  lamplight  through 
the  dark  trees,  and  when  he  approached  the  Hall  he  could 
distinguish  the  figure  of  Eleanor,  standing  by  the  white 
column  under  the  wan  light  of  the  stars.  She  was  wai ting- 
eagerly  for  the  news. 

"  How  is  it,  Henry  ?  "  she  called  out  as  he  came  through 
the  gate. 

"  Well,"  he  replied  with  light-heartedness,  "  Gilbert  will 
be  governor,  I  shall  go  to  Richmond,  and  the  cry  now  is, 
'  Turn  the  rascals  out. ' ' 

It  was  her  victory  as  well  as  his.  She  had  watched  the 
campaign  like  the  nurse  of  a  fever  patient. 

"Perhaps  there  is  a  chance  to  save  the  old  place  yet," 
he  whispered. 

"  Oh,  if  you  only  could !  "  she  answered  with  quiet  fervor. 
"You  have  a  future  now,  and  a  work." 

As  they  passed  into  the  house,  they  heard  a  voice  calling 
oat,  as  a  little  white-robed  youngster  trotted  downstairs 
in  his  bare  feet :  — 

"Papa,  papa,  did  you  get  'lected?  Did  you  lick  that 
damn  carpet-bagger  ?  " 

Even  Little  Chap  hadn't  been  able  to  go  to  sleep.  It 
was  his  victory,  too. 


BOOK   VIII 
THE  OPENING  OF  A  CAREER 


CHAPTER   XXXVI 

ELSIE   REAPPEARS 

GILBERT,  the  new  governor,  went  into  office  with  a 
broom,  and  a  homely  commission  from  the  people  "to 
clean  house." 

On  the  evening  of  inauguration  day  he  gave  a  reception 
to  the  members  of  the  legislature.  The  gubernatorial 
residence,  an  unpretentious  brick  house,  was  built  in  an 
upper  angle  of  the  great  Richmond  square ;  it  faced  the 
Washington  monument  and  the  simple,  massive  Capitol, 
standing  a  few  rods  away,  like  an  ancient  temple  in  its 
grove  of  immemorial  trees. 

Bourland's  breast  was  filled  with  an  almost  childish 
elation.  He  had  come  from  the  obscurity  of  the  Hall  to 
find  that  here,  among  the  representative  people  of  the 
state,  he  was  a  man  of  mark.  Men  approached  him  with 
an  air  of  timidity  and  diffidence,  as  if  they  came  uncertain 
of  a  welcome  from  a  dignitary. 

"Your  speeches,  Colonel,"  said  one  of  them,  "were  an 
inspiration  to  us.  I  heard  your  address  at  Harvey,  and 
went  home  with  new  resolution.  I  come  from  Rockbridge, 
sir,  and  I  remember  that  General  Lee,  while  he  was  presi 
dent  of  the  college,  once  said  that  you  had  the  making  of 
an  orator  in  you.  We  shall  look  to  you  as  one  of  our 
leaders  this  session." 

283 


284  HENRY   BOURLAND 

Four  men,  standing  by,  were  awaiting  an  opportunity  to 
speak  to  him. 

When  Bourland  met  the  governor,  the  latter  took  his 
hand  and  shook  it  gratefully. 

"  Lacamac  is  one  of  our  banner  counties,"  said  he. 
"  They  tell  me  you  were  more  interested  in  the  election 
of  the  head  of  the  ticket  than  in  your  own.  I  shall  not 
forget  you,  Colonel." 

"  I'm  not  sure  that  you  have  the  truth  of  it,  Governor. 
The  fight  in  Lacamac  was  a  bitterly  personal  one.  I  had 
to  do  my  best  for  my  own  skin." 

"I've  heard  a  good  deal  of  that  man  Parker.  He 
seems  to  have  a  great  hold  on  the  niggers,  and  he  is  full 
of  resources.  I  intend  to  suppress  him  and  his  gang  just 
as  soon  as  possible.  By  the  way,  Colonel,  my  wife's  niece 
tells  me  that  you  and  she  were  old  friends.  She  comes 
from  down  your  way.  Have  you  seen  her  ?  " 

"  Whom  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Vinton's  daughter  ;  I  hate  to  call  her  by  her  hus 
band's  name.  He's  a  pretty  poor  specimen  —  a  scalawag, 
I  understand.  Poor  girl,  she  made  a  great  mistake  when 
she  was  younger,  and  she  has  had  a  bitter  experience. 
It's  too  bad,  for  she  has  grown  to  be  as  beautiful  as  a 
duchess.  I  expect  her  here  to-night.  She  will  be  glad  to 
see  you,  I  know." 

"  Oh,"  said  Bourland.  "  I  did  know  her  ;  quite  well, 
I  think,  when  we  were  young." 

Elsie  Vinton  !  She  had  disappeared  long  since  from 
his  life,  almost  from  his  recollection.  He  saw  her  in 
memory  as  one  returning  from  the  dead. 

He  would  see  her  to-night !  He  felt  absolutely  indiffer 
ent  about  her  coming,  and  the  sound  of  her  name  did  not 
even  revive  any  of  the  old  emotions.  In  fact,  five  minutes 
afterward  the  thought  of  her  had  slipped  from  his  mind. 

Half  an  hour  later,  glancing  accidentally  across  the 
room,  he  saw  her  standing  under  a  glare  of  light,  the 
attracting  centre  of  a  circle  of  men.  She  was  talking 
with  great  animation,  and  her  eyes  flung  out  lancets  of 
exhilaration. 


ELSIE  REAPPEARS  285 

He  sat  down  in  a  chair,  observing  her  with  cold  curi 
osity.  Was  this  the  comrade  of  his  youth  ?  She  was 
changed  somewhat  in  appearance,  but  her  manner  was 
the  manner  of  the  Elsie  of  old.  She  stood  there,  in  the 
full  pride  of  social  charms,  distributing  her  smiles  to  the 
group  of  men  as  a  Santa  Glaus  doles  out  gifts  to  expec 
tant  children.  A  certain  gracious  superiority  actually 
made  them  seem  like  children  in  her  presence. 

"  Not  much  indication  of  tragedy  there,"  thought  Bour- 
land,  with  an  inward  sneer. 

He  gathered  up  the  stray  bits  of  information  that  had 
come  to  him  during  the  past  years  ;  it  was  mostly  rumor 
and  gossip,  —  the  marriage  with  Clayton,  her  removal  to 
Richmond,  the  separation  from  her  husband,  the  life  in 
the  Confederate  colony  in  London,  the  travels  with  an 
English  family  on  the  Continent,  and  last,  that  scandalous 
tale  of  her  relations  with  an  English  noble.  He  didn't 
know  when  she  returned  to  America.  After  that  episode 
neither  he  nor  Eleanor  had  mentioned  her  name. 

His  glance  met  hers.  Bourland  felt  an  impulse  to  shun 
the  recognition.  But  she  bowed  and  smiled  with  unmis 
takable  cordiality,  and  in  her  face  there  was  a  gleam  of 
joy,  a  gladness  that  suggested  the  freshness  of  girlhood. 
It  struck  home  and  awoke  all  those  dormant  impressions 
of  his  early  romance. 

The  picture  of  the  woman  present  in  the  body  dis 
solved  into  the  vision  of  youth.  He  saw  the  Elsie  of 
other  days  :  his  playmate,  tossing  her  impertinent  head ; 
the  incarnation  of  witchery,  the  favorite  of  his  father,  the 
audacious  rider  of  Scot.  Poor  Scot  !  the  echoes  of  his 
last  whinny  had  died  away  amid  the  clashing  of  battle  at 
Fredericksburg. 

Then  came  another  memory,  —  the  night  of  that  last 
interview  and  the  cause  of  their  separation  (he  had  almost 
forgotten  it),  the  letter  which  she  had  stealthily  read ; 
the  act  which  had  broken  irretrievably  the  enchantment 
of  young  lover's  fairy  land. 

Shortly  after  their  mutual  recognition  she  left  the  circle 
of  the  charmed  and  passed  slowly  over  to  the  conserva- 


286  HENKY  BOUBLAND 

tory.  Bourland  divined  her  intention  and  her  wish.  He 
must  follow  her  now,  perforce,  and  he  went,  urged  more 
by.  the  gentleman's  sense  of  obligation  to  the  sex  than  by 
any  real  desire  to  revive  the  acquaintance. 

She  was  standing  alone  amid  the  fragrance  of  the 
flowers,  her  back  toward  the  entrance.  At  the  sound  of 
his  step  she  turned  and  greeted  him  with  low-uttered 
pleasure. 

"I  hoped  you  would  come."  It  was  an  implied  con 
fession  of  her  intention. 

"  Mrs.  Clayton,"  struggled  to  his  lips,  but  they  refused 
to  speak  any  name  but  the  comrade's  title  of  "  Elsie." 

Her  face  glowed  with  joy  at  the  familiar  address,  while 
he  regretted  the  indiscretion. 

"  I  have  been  looking  at  you  for  half  an  hour,  trying 
by  thought  to  draw  your  attention,"  she  went  on.  Her 
vivacity  was  gone  now,  displaced  by  the  calmness  of  some 
secret  satisfaction. 

"I  didn't  see  you,"  he  stammered,  and  then  betrayed 
himself  with  an  after-thought.  "  I  didn't  want  to  come 
while  all  those  men  were  around  you." 

"I  didn't  want  you  to  come  then." 

There  was  an  agitation  in  her  voice.  He  felt  that,  in 
spite  of  himself,  they  had  come  back  to  the  temper  and 
tone  of  their  former  relations. 

"You  have  changed  very  much,"  he  said,  ill  at  ease. 
Then,  realizing  that  the  remark  was  open  to  uncompli 
mentary  interpretation,  he  added  hastily,  with  chivalric 
courtesy,  "You  have  grown  more  beautiful  than  ever." 

The  homage  brought  a  trace  of  the  wild  fire  of  delight 
into  her  eyes.  She  unconsciously  rose  to  the  height  of  her 
stature  under  the  stimulus  of  his  gaze. 

Indeed,  she  was  more  beautiful  than  when  he  saw  her 
last;  no  longer  with  the  beauty  of  fascinating  girlhood, 
but  with  the  developed  power  and  fulness  of  woman ;  no 
longer  a  rose  precious  in  the  bud,  but  in  the  richness  of 
the  consummate  flower. 

She  was  taller  by  half  a  span,  and  the  years,  tormented 
by  no  wear  and  rack  of  maternity,  had  moulded  her  to  a 


ELSIE  REAPPEARS  287 

sculptor's  dream  of  health  and  maturity.  There  was  no 
marring  line  in  her  face,  no  angle  in  her  body,  no  devia 
tion  from  the  norm  of  symmetry.  Her  figure  was  an 
unbroken  flow  and  bend  and  fall  of  sinuous  curve  that 
vibrated  and  quivered  with  the  exuberance  of  vitality. 

The  modiste  who  fitted  the  gown  she  wore  must  have 
forgotten,  for  once,  all  thought  of  mercenary  gain  in  the 
opportunity  to  display  her  art. 

The  impression  that  came  over  Bourland  as  he  stood 
near  her  and  caught  the  magnetic  influence  of  her  pres 
ence  was  an  uncritical  admiration  for  the  robust  splendor 
of  her  physical  being.  Whatever  else  she  might  be,  she 
was  to  the  seeing  eye  a  magnificent  animal,  full-blooded, 
fiery,  untamed,  yet  languishing  from  some  inward  distress. 

A  Buddhist  lover  with  his  belief  in  the  transmigration 
of  souls  would  have  searched  for  her  after  death,  among 
the  royal  mistresses  of  the  jungle. 

The  impression  grew  upon  him  in  strength. 

"  I  can  hardly  believe  you  have  come  back  to  us,"  he 
said  at  last,  somewhat  bewildered. 

"  Perhaps  you  think  I  am  somebody  else,  an  impostor," 
she  replied  with  half -subdued  playfulness.  "  Do  you 
want  some  passwords  and  signs  ?  Scot,  Uncle  Aze,  your 
father's  habit  of  stirring  his  brandy  with  the  middle 
finger."  There  was  a  wan  pleasure  in  her  face. 

"  Oh  !  "  she  added  with  an  impulsive  outbreak  of  feel 
ing,  "oh,  if  we  could  only  blot  out  the  consequences  of 
our  mistakes !  " 

There  was  in  her  voice  the  faint  cry  of  some  unquench 
able  agony.  The  prejudice  which  Bourland  had  main 
tained  against  her  began  to  melt  in  the  crucible  of  his 
sympathies.  He  wiped  the  moisture  of  agitation  from 
his  forehead. 

"  Let  us  go  out  upon  the  lawn.     It  is  so  hot  here." 

She  flung  a  brilliant  scarf  of  Roman  silk  over  the  bared 
whiteness  of  her  shoulders,  and  then  took  his  arm. 

Arm  linked  in  arm,  the  thought  returned  to  him  of  the 
old  comradeship.  But  he  reflected  that  his  hair  was  already 
touched  with  gray. 


288  HENRY   BOURLAND 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  find  you  changed,  Henry.  If  you 
were  as  you  used  to  be,  you  wouldn't  have  any  sympathy 
for  me.  You  are  older  now,  but  I  like  you  much  better 
for  it." 

She  spoke  as  if  they  were  companions  in  trouble  and 
trial,  and  it  brought  him  a  certain  consolation.  He  was 
ready  to  forgive  and  forget  anything. 

They  passed  under  the  arcade  of  trees  in  the  adjoining 
square;  lanterns,  suspended  from  the  branches,  gleamed 
like  magic  fruit. 

She  dropped  her  fan.  He  stooped  to  pick  it  up.  Her 
hand  left  its  nest  under  his  arm,  and  the  nest  became  cool. 
He  gave  her  the  fan.  She  replaced  her  hand,  and  the  nest 
became  again  deliciously  warm. 

"  You  have  done  such  a  lot  of  things  since  I  saw  you 
last,"  she  said,  going  on  to  recount  his  deeds  in  war  and 
peace,  and  showing  that  she  had  carefully  followed  his 


"  Tell  me  about  yourself,"  he  asked  with  gentle 
command. 

"  I  would  better  leave  my  story  untold,"  she  replied  with 
a  sigh.  But  she  opened  her  heart  with  a  strange  lack  of 
reticence.  "  When  I  couldn't  stand  him  any  longer,"  she 
continued,  after  many  exposures  of  her  unhappy  marriage, 
"  I  told  him  we  should  have  to  live  apart.  He  was  a  per 
fect  slave  to  me,  and  the  more  he  did,  the  more  I  hated 
him.  He  gave  me  money  and  let  me  go  abroad.  I  joined 
the  American  refugees  in  London,  and  travelled  on  the 
Continent.  I  grew  tired  of  Europe.  It  is  a  wearisome 
place.  I  have  come  back  to  him."  Then,  after  a  pause, 
with  all  the  pathos  of  helpless  woe,  she  added,  "  Oh,  I 
wish  I  were  dead." 

"  Did  you  say  you  were  living  with  your  husband  now  ?  " 

"  We  inhabit  the  same  house,"  she  answered.  "  It  is 
shameful  for  me  to  say  it,  but  it's  a  dog's  life  in  a  kennel. 
He  has  a  certain  brute  kindliness,  and  when  I  pat  him  on 
the  back,  he  frisks  and  jumps  with  joy.  If  I  helped  him, 
I  suppose  he'd  stand  upon  his  two  feet  for  me  and  be  a 
man.  But  I  won't.  I  hate  him  so." 


ELSIE   REAPPEARS  289 

Bourland  could  find  no  apt  words.  He  remained 
thoughtful,  attentive,  embarrassed.  "  I  wish  he  would 
abuse  me.  I  wish  he  had  spirit  enough  to  do  that,"  she 
cried  ;  "  I  could  respect  him  a  little  then."  Her  previous 
languor  gave  way  to  an  impulse  of  passionate  appeal.  "I 
can't  endure  this  much  longer.  Oh,  Henry  !  You  are 
the  only  one  of  my  old  friends  left  to  me,  the  only  one 
from  the  dear,  old,  better  days."  She  stopped,  and  gave 
him  a  look,  the  meaning  of  which  he  only  vaguely  divined. 
"  I'm  like  a  ship  at  sea  without  a  rudder." 

"I'm  glad  we  met  to-night,  Elsie.  It  is  pleasant  in 
these  dark  days  to  go  back,  even  in  thought,  to  the  old 
times.  Perhaps  we  can  help  each  other."  All  vestiges  of 
his  resentment,  of  his  indifference,  had  been  obliterated  by 
the  vision  of  her  bleeding  heart.  "  You  have  scarcely 
begun  to  live  your  life  yet." 

"What  have  I  to  live  for?"  she  demanded  with  petu 
lant  irritation. 

"  For  the  sake  of  the  past,"  he  answered,  and  he  could 
see  that  the  thought  had  touched  the  best  that  was  in  her. 
It  put  her  to  silence. 

He  began  to  tell  her,  on  his  part,  of  his  own  affairs,  — 
the  loss  of  the  lands,  and  the  prospect  soon  of  losing  the 
Hall  home.  "  We  shall  be  evicted,  like  Irish  peasants," 
he  declared  sadly. 

"  Nonsense,"  she  broke  out.  "  Gather  yourself  to 
gether.  You've  got  a  great  future  before  you.  I've 
heard  men  say  that  you  can  be  sent  to  Washington  some 
day  as  senator  if  you  fulfil  your  promise.  Don't  give 
up.  Don't  let  the  Hall  go  out  of  your  hands.  You 
know  how  your  father  loved  it.  Keep  it  —  "  she  hesi 
tated,  "  keep  it  —  because  —  it  stands  for  the  best  in  the 
lives  of  more  than  one." 

They  had  come  to  the  foot  of  the  Washington  monu 
ment  in  the  opposite  angle  of  the  square. 

"  How  I  should  love  to  see  the  dear  old  place  again," 
she  said  dreamily. 

"  You  shall,"  he  answered  with  decision. 

"Perhaps  Eleanor  won't  receive  me  now." 
u 


290  HENRY   BOURLAND 

"She  will." 

"  What  makes  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  Because  I  shall  wish  it ;  because  she,  too,  has  known 
what  it  is  to  suffer." 

Immediately  he  regretted  his  words.  He  had  uttered 
them  under  the  spell  of  his  present  mood  —  a  mood  of 
strong  sentiment  which,  for  the  time,  obscured  everything 
else.  It  had  been  induced  by  sympathy  for  her  utter 
loneliness  and  misery,  and  by  an  indefinable  disturbance 
within  himself.  He  experienced  a  stirring  of  the  senses 
in  her  presence,  an  exhilaration  when,  in  their  motion 
side  by  side,  this  beautiful  being,  so  alluring  with  radiant 
life,  came  nearer,  and,  at  times,  touched  him.  He  was 
aware  of  the  warmth  of  her  nature,  aware  that  it  quick 
ened  in  response  to  his  own,  aware  that  smouldering  within 
her  there  was  an  unburned  fire. 

"Do  you  really  want  me  to  revisit  the  Hall?"  she 
inquired. 

A  second  thought  had  brought  him  caution. 

"  Yes,"  he  replied  with  slight  hesitation. 

"  I  am  so  glad,"  she  broke  out  joyously.  "  I  was  afraid 
that  when  we  met  you  would  find  me  dull,  uninteresting ; 
that  you  would  say  a  few  words,  and  then  ignore  me. 
You  don't  know  what  a  comfort  it  is  to  come  back,  after 
a  long  absence,  and  find  one's  old  friends  still  loyal  and 
steadfast." 

Her  hand  gave  a  slight  pressure  on  his  arm,  and  almost 
immediately  her  mood  changed.  She  became  gay,  joyous, 
and  chattered  like  a  brilliant  debutante. 

When  she  left  that  evening,  as  she  entered  her  carriage, 
her  hand,  by  tacit  consent,  lingered  in  his.  He  promised 
that  he  should  come  to  see  her. 

When  he  went  back  to  join  a  crowd  of  smokers  whom 
the  governor  had  requested  to  remain  for  a  conference,  it 
began  to  dawn  upon  him  that  he  was  in  a  very  uncertain 
and  indeterminate  mental  condition.  His  original  inten 
tion  had  been  to  avoid  Mrs.  Clayton,  or,  at  most,  to  be 
only  formally  polite.  But  some  power,  stronger  than  his 
intention  or  his  will,  had  kept  him  a  whole  evening, 


ELSIE   REAPPEARS  291 

exchanging  familiar  confidences  with  the  Elsie  whom  he 
had  once  almost  loved. 

"  I'll  have  to  keep  clear  of  her  in  the  future,"  he  mut 
tered.  "  I  may  run  on  a  shoal.  From  now  on  my  busi 
ness  must  be  exclusively  with  men." 

In  half  an  hour  she  was  driven  from  his  thoughts  by 
the  problems  of  politics. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

AGRARIAN  AND  PROGRESSIONIST 

WHEN  a  great  cause  fails,  one  on  which  men  have  ar 
dently  set  their  hopes,  there  usually  comes  unto  the  lives 
of  the  survivors  a  mood  of  morbid  melancholy  and  Byronic 
despair.  It  grapples  their  hearts,  their  souls,  their  wills, 
and  holds  them  chain-bound  to  their  own  sentimental  mis 
ery.  But  if  there  be  real  men  among  them,  this  mood 
passes  away,  in  time,  and  gives  place  to  the  unsubdued  and 
unsubduable  energy  of  some  prophet  like  Carlyle  with  his 
gospel  of  work  as  a  panacea  for  all  earthly  woes. 

Bourland  had  played  the  r61e  of  Byronic  incapability  to 
the  end ;  once  again,  and  now  with  the  reawakened  genius 
of  his  people  behind  him,  he  was  ready  for  the  programme 
of  action  and  achievement. 

The  cause  of  the  Confederacy  and  states'  rights  was  irre 
trievably  lost.  But  Virginia,  with  much  of  her  glorious 
heritage  from  the  past,  might  yet  be  saved  and  restored  to 
her  proud  position  of  eminence.  "  I  have  an  opportunity 
to  help  save  her,"  reflected  Bourland.  "  That  is  my  com 
mission  and  nearest  duty."  And  the  love  of  the  general 
doctrine  of  states'  rights  survived  with  him  in  a  devotion  to 
his  own  state  in  particular. 

With  this  loyalty  for  the  commonwealth  there  was  min 
gled  a  due  regard  for  his  personal  interests,  so  that  he  pos 
sessed  double  motives  and  incentives. 

He  was  urged  to  take  the  office  of  speaker  of  the  lower 
House  of  Delegates,  but  he  definitively  refused.  "  I  haven't 
had  the  necessary  experience,"  he  said.  "  Let  me  serve  on 
the  floor  until  I  get  broken  in."  There  was  a  self-regard 
ing  reason  for  his  refusal.  "  If  I  should  take  it  as  a  green- 

292 


AGRARIAN   AND  PROGRESSIONIST  293 

horn,"  he  thought,  "  I  should  surely  make  mistakes  that 
might  be  fatal  to  my  future.  I  can't  run  the  risk."  He 
had  began  to  look  forward,  arid  he  saw  hovering  ahead  of 
him  a  dream,  a  possible  realization,  a  seat  in  the  National 
Senate.  Many  men  recently,  perhaps  they  were  merely 
politicians,  had  made  significant  allusions  to  such  a  ca 
reer.  "  You  ought  to  be  an  orator,"  General  Lee  had 
said  at  their  last  meeting.  He  had  never  forgotten  those 
words.  In  the  Senate  !  There  was  a  chance  to  restore  the 
prestige  to  his  name. 

The  ideals  of  the  planter  still  dominated  in  his  political 
views  and  colored  his  policies.  He  had  little  sympathy  for 
things  beyond  their  range  of  influence.  Before  long  he 
became  distinguished  as  a  leader  of  the  agrarians. 

The  present  legislature  was  composed  of  a  Conservative 
majority  with  a  considerable  scattering  of  carpet-baggers, 
scalawags,  and  negroes.  Among  the  Conservatives  there 
was  not  a  unanimity  of  opinion.  A  number  of  them,  own 
ing  no  land,  were  out-and-out  commercialists,  and  they 
took  up  the  hue  and  cry  of  "  modern  progress  "  and  the 
development  of  mechanical  industries. 

The  agrarians,  on  the  other  hand,  were  the  representa 
tives  of  the  old  conditions.  They  cherished  the  traditions 
of  the  planters,  and  desired  to  keep  Virginia  as  in  the  past, 
an  agricultural  community.  They  looked  askance  at  the 
encroachments  of  commercialism,  and  with  heart  and  lip 
despised  the  Yankee  spirit  of  bargain  and  trade.  They 
felt  a  certain  social  superiority,  like  that  assumed  by  the 
English  landed  gentry  over  the  London  shopkeeper. 

In  the  South  at  that  time  the  sympathy  with  the  agra 
rian  policy  was  very  strong.  During  the  carpet-bag  regime 
the  cry  of  "  modern  progress  "  had  been  used  as  the  open 
sesame  to  the  state  treasuries,  and  more  than  forty  thieves, 
under  the  pretence  of  building  roads,  public  works,  and  of 
extending  internal  improvements,  had  bonded  the  states 
with  debts,  put  the  money  in  their  capacious  pockets,  and 
had  then  sighed,  like  the  Macedonian  conqueror,  for  new 
worlds  of  spoliation. 

The  agrarians,  therefore,  with  their  policy  of  rigid  econ- 


294  HENRY  BOURLAND 

omy,  their  distrust  of  modern  innovations,  their  loyalty  to 
the  older  ideals,  represented  the  best  Conservative  sentiment. 

There  lay  Bourland's  opportunity  for  leadership. 

But  there  was  a  man  in  the  legislature  destined  to  become 
a  potent  force  in  politics,  and,  possibly,  a  masterful  oppo 
nent.  His  name  was  Barlowe,1 —  a  reticent  man,  one  tardy 
in  announcing  his  position,  yet  a  person  of  tireless  energy 
and  inexhaustible  resources.  He  came  from  an  obscure 
family,  but  had  fought  his  way  from  the  ranks  of  the  army 
into  prominence.  At  Bull  Run,  he  was  a  private ;  at 
Fredericksburg,  a  major ;  at  Gettysburg,  a  colonel ;  at  the 
battle  of  the  Wilderness,  the  commander  of  a  division. 
Everybody  regarded  him  as  a  brave  man,  and  a  brave  man 
he  was.  He  had  been  several  times  wounded,  and  wounds 
were  unassailable  charters  of  esteem.  After  the  war,  amid 
the  turmoil  and  chaos,  he  turned  to  politics,  and  he  had 
never  failed  to  carry  his  county. 

Bourland  was  fifteen  years  his  junior  in  age,  and  thirty 
in  experience. 

Barlowe  had  lost  two  fingers  of  his  right  hand,  and, 
apparently  somewhat  sensitive  at  the  disfigurement,  he 
usually  carried  that  hand  in  his  pocket.  He  was  an  un 
handsome  personage,  anyway,  possessing  none  of  those 
physical  graces  of  presence  and  manner  so  helpful  to  a 
public  character. 

"  It  was  those  two  fingers  or  my  life,"  he  remarked  to 
Bourland  one  day.  "  This  battered  stump  is  a  reminder 
of  the  circumstance.  My  other  wounds  —  I've  got  seven 
—  I  can  hide  under  my  clothes ;  but  this  thing  won't  hide. 
I  got  it  during  the  break-up  at  Appomattox,  after  the 
order  to  disband  had  been  given.  I  was  walking  out  at 
night  on  the  edge  of  our  lines,  and  a  hungry-looking  devil 
jumped  out  of  some  bushes,  put  a  musket  barrel  in  my  face, 
and  demanded  my  valuables.  I  pushed  it  away  with  rny 
hand,  but  it  went  off  and  took  those  two  fingers  up  to  the 


1  The  public  career  of  Barlowe  may  suggest  to  some  a  man  once  noto 
rious  in  Virginia  politics.  There  has  been  no  intention  here,  however,  of 
reproducing  his  private  life  and  character. 


AGRARIAN   AND  PROGRESSIONIST  295 

"Was  he  a  Yankee  prowler?"  asked  Bourland. 

"  No ;  one  of  our  fellows,  a  straggler  turned  bandit." 

"  What  happened  to  him  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  stuck  him  with  my  sword  through  the  guts.  It 
was  a  pretty  easy  poke,  too,  for  he  was  hollow  from  noth 
ing  to  eat.  That  was  a  close  shave  for  me,  I  can  tell  you. 
I  felt  very  near  God  for  an  hour  afterward." 

He  told  it  all  with  a  cigar  projecting  from  his  rows  of 
yellow  teeth,  and  with  his  usual  voice,  a  sonorous  whine, 
which  never  passed  beyond  the  range  of  the  natural  octave. 

For  the  first  time  Bourland  realized  the  utter  heartless- 
ness  of  the  man.  Barlowe  had  taken  side  with  neither 
the  agrarians  nor  the  progressionists  ;  he  busied  himself 
with  the  revision  of  the  election  laws,  and  in  this  work  he 
showed  himself  an  astute  partisan.  So  partisan  indeed 
were  some  of  his  proposals  that  several  times  he  was 
jocularly  criticised  for  them. 

"  Well,"  he  drawled  out,  "  when  you  are  at  war  and  you 
get  a  strong  position,  you  fortify  and  intrench  it,  don't 
you,  so's  the  enemy  can't  get  in  ?  " 

On  one  occasion  he  invited  Bourland  to  dine  with  him 
at  Murphy's,  and  Bourland,  although  he  never  sought  out 
Barlowe  as  a  companion,  accepted  for  political  reasons. 

"There's  a  fellow  been  talking  at  me  for  a  long  time, 
a  promoter  of  some  kind.  I  don't  know  about  his  scheme. 
I  want  him  to  have  a  shot  at  you,"  said  Barlowe,  as  he 
gave  the  invitation. 

He  went,  and  the  promoter,  during  the  dinner,  broached 
his  idea  —  a  plan  to  build  a  competing  railroad  into  the 
West.  Barlowe,  apparently,  was  looking  on  it  with  favor. 

"The  Chesapeake  and  Ohio  is  bound  to  be  a  great 
success,  Colonel,"  said  Barlowe,  sticking  his  napkin,  which 
had  fallen  down,  once  more  under  his  collar. 

"  Yes,  it  will  do  some  good  to  the  state,  I  suppose," 
answered  Bourland ;  "  but  I  take  little  stock  in  these 
bubble  stories  of  boom  towns  and  mushroom  cities.  Man- 
chesters  and  Birminghams  have  been  prophesied  for  us 
by  the  score.  Indeed,  in  these  tales,  the  future  of  New 
York  itself  is  threatened  with  a  superior  rival." 


296  HENRY   BOURLAND 

"  Well,  now,"  replied  Barlowe,  "  there's  Norfolk.  I 
haven't  a  doubt  but  what  Norfolk  in  twenty  years  will 
be  as  big  as  Liverpool.  Just  look  at  this  Chesapeake  and 
Ohio,  and  see  what  it  can  do.  See  how  it  can  beat  out 
any  other  Eastern  road  in  natural  advantages  for  grain 
carrying.  And  look  at  that  harbor;  there  isn't  a  finer 
harbor  than  Hampton  Roads  in  all  the  world." 

"  Norfolk,"  cried  out  the  promoter  with  zeal,  "  Norfolk 
is  a  natural  gateway  for  the  whole  world.  It  is  a  gateway 
for  the  whole  South.  It  is  the  key  to  our  jewel  chest,  the 
entrance  to  a  great  treasure  land,  stored  with  our  incom 
parable  resources.  I  tell  you,  sir,"  he  went  on,  "  the  future 
of  Virginia  is  dependent  upon  the  future  of  Norfolk.  If 
we  can  boom  her  into  an  active,  populous  city,  the  golden 
age  of  our  prosperity  will  return  to  us,  the  fields  will 
blossom  anew,  the  chimneys  of  factories  will  smoke  to 
the  clouds,  the  whistle  and  hum  of  machinery  will  make 
eternal  music." 

"  By  Jingo  !  "  said  Barlowe,  jocularly,  laying  down  the 
knife  with  which  he  had  been  eating,  "  you  would  persuade 
a  heathen.  That's  what  we  want,  —  factories  and  eternal 
music.  Then  we  could  all  start  to  sing." 

The  sarcasm  did  not  dampen  the  ardor  of  the  promoter. 
He  continued  to  talk  glowing  pictures. 

"  I  am  far  from  sharing  your  enthusiasm,"  said  Bourland. 

"  It  is  all  true,"  he  replied.  "  All  we  need  is  something 
like  Northern  push  to  make  it  true." 

"  We've  had  enough  Northern  push  in  the  South  these 
last  few  years,"  retorted  Bourland.  "  Virginia  is  the 
garden  spot  of  this  country.  She  was  ordained  by  God  to 
be  an  agricultural  commonwealth.  It  is  wrenching  her 
from  her  natural  destiny  to  make  anything  else  out  of 
her." 

"  Oh,  pshaw ! "  put  in  Barlowe,  turning  his  banter  on 
Bourland.  "  You  aren't  up  to  the  times.  You'd  have  us 
stand  still.  What  this  state  needs  is  just  what  our  friend 
says,  though  he  takes  many  words  to  say  it  —  another 
good  railroad  to  compete  with  this  Chesapeake  and  Ohio, 
which  the  fellows  in  Wall  Street  have  got  hold  of  for  the 


AGRARIAN   AND   PROGRESSIONIST  297 

purpose  of  squeezing  dividends  out  of  us.  What  do  they 
care  about  the  state  of  Virginia?  What  we  want  is  a 
strictly  home  enterprise,  planned  and  developed  and  per 
fected  all  by  our  own  people  ;  something  that  will  show  the 
people  of  this  country  that  Virginia  is  alive,  awake,  and  up 
to  date ;  something  that  will  bring  capital  and  labor  over 
our  borders.  We  want  to  give  the  country  an  object  les 
son,  and  this  road,  I  think^  will  do  it.  It  is  proposed  to 
run  it  along  the  river  into  the  valley,  and  thus  to  open  up 
a  way  that  will  drain  the  great  states  of  the  Southwest  of 
their  grain  and  produce.  Virginia  will  become  the  port  of 
entry  and  point  of  departure  for  half  the  continent.  It 
means  that  Virginia,  and  not  Georgia,  will  become  the 
empire  state  of  the  South." 

"  But  how  are  you  going  to  drain  the  states  in  the  rear 
when  they  haven't  the  roads  to  connect  with  ours  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  they'll  come  in  time,"  declared  the  promoter. 

"  Where  are  you  going  to  get  the  money  to  do  it  ?  There 
aren't  enough  capitalists  among  our  own  people." 

"  We  don't  want  it  all  to  be  private  enterprise.  Let 
the  state  do  it  with  bonds." 

"  Haven't  we  had  enough  of  that  sort  of  business  from 
the  carpet-baggers  ?  " 

"  But  we  should  do  it  honestly,"  asserted  Barlowe. 

Bourland  shook  his  head. 

"  You  couldn't  make  the  road  pay.  There  isn't  enough 
demand  for  such  a  thing.  The  state  would  have  to  pay 
the  original  cost,  and  then  once  involved,  would  have  to 
grant  annual  subsidies  to  turn  the  wheels  and  keep  the 
rolling  stock  in  motion." 

Barlowe  had  been  studying  Bourland's  face  carefully. 
"  That's  what  makes  me  hesitate,"  he  said.  "  That  very 
point.  Suppose  we  get  in,  there  is  no  way  of  getting  out. 
It's  risky.  I  think  our  friend  had  better  study  up  the 
details  better  before  he  takes  the  subject  farther.  We 
want  more  facts,  friend,  and  less  talk." 

"Who  are  behind  you?"  asked  Bourland,  turning  sud 
denly  to  the  promoter. 

"  They  don't  want  their  names  to  be  known  yet." 


298  HENRY  BOUftLAND 

"  Well,  I'm  opposed  to  it  tooth  and  nail,"  he  said  deci- 
s  vely. 

The  promoter  looked  at  Barlowe,  but  his  face  was  im 
passive.  He  appeared  to  be  meditating. 

"Perhaps  you're  right,  Bourland,"  he  said  at  last. 
"  You  are  on  the  safe  side,  anyway." 

Bourland  left  the  table  suspicious,  and  his  suspicions 
induced  him  to  do  some  very  quiet  work  as  a  scout.  He 
learned  gradually,  by  stray  facts  and  inferences,  that  a  bill 
authorizing  the  railroad,  and  guaranteeing  a  large  part  of 
the  cost  by  state  bonds,  was  to  be  brought  before  the  legis 
lature  ;  furthermore  that  Barlowe,  after  its  passage,  was  to 
be  the  president  of  the  corporation,  at  a  salary  of  twenty 
thousand  dollars  a  year. 

"  I  see  through  your  game  now,  General  Barlowe,"  mut 
tered  Bourland.  "  To  make  twenty  thousand  a  year,  for 
yourself,  you  will  loot  the  state  of  several  millions.  It  is 
too  bad,  too  bad.  We  have  just  cleaned  out  the  carpet 
bagger  pest,  and  now  you  come,  out  of  our  own  ranks,  to 
follow  their  example.  Human  nature  is  human  nature, 
north  or  south.  Well,  here's  a  chance  to  scotch  a  snake 
and  kill  him.  And  I'll  do  it." 

He  felt  his  fibres  stiffen  for  the  struggle. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

ANOTHER   CHRISTMAS   AT   THE   HALL 

THE  autumn  passed,  and  the  year  drifted  on  toward 
Christmas. 

"  We  can  have  a  small,  old-fashioned  house  party  this  year,"  wrote 
Bourland  from  Richmond  to  Eleanor.  "  I  have  sold  that  town  lot  for 
a  snug  sum,  and  we  have  enough  to  keep  the  wolf  from  the  Hall  door 
for  a  year  or  two,  at  least.  ...  I  want  you  to  invite  Elsie  Vinton  (I 
can't  force  my  pen  to  add  the  other  name)  ;  she  will  come  with  an 
aunt  for  the  holidays.  I  feel  very  sorry  for  her ;  she  is  paying  for  the 
mistake  of  her  youth  with  a  long  penance.  My  prejudices  against  her 
have  all  gone,  for  I  think  her  trials  have  brought  out  the  best  that  is 
in  her.  It  would  give  her  great  pleasure  to  spend  a  few  days  with  us. 
Write  her,  Eleanor,  for  the  sake  of  old  times.  We  ought  to  help  each 
other  as  much  as  we  can,  in  these  days.  ...  I  am  working  up  this 
railroad  business,  and  I  am  going  to  defeat  it,  I  believe.  I  purpose  to 
throw  a  bomb  among  the  conspirators  when  they  least  expect  it.  It 
is  a  gigantic  scheme  to  make  a  few  highwaymen  rich  at  the  expense 
of  the  state.  If  I  can  smash  it,  it  is  going  to  push  me  several  miles  on 
the  road  toward  that  which,  at  present,  it  is  inadvisable  to  write  down 
in  black  and  white.  But  I  hear  the  bees  buzzing  around  my  ears,  and 
they  are  honey  bees." 

The  house  party  was  not  even  so  large  as  originally 
planned.  Anderson  wrote  that  he  would  surely  be  there, 
"  begrimed  so  like  a  darky  with  mine  dust  that  he  feared 
he  would  not  be  admitted  to  social  equality."  Elsie  Vin 
ton  promised  to  come  with  her  aunt.  Bourland  sent  word 
that  Major  Talcott,  an  old  army  friend,  a  bachelor,  would 
come  with  him.  But  the  Hewitts,  owing  to  the  sudden 
illness  of  the  youngest  child,  were  compelled  to  decline  the 
invitation. 

"  Send  all  the  children  who  are  not  sick,"  said  Bourland 
in  a  note  to  them,  after  his  arrival.  "  We  must  have  some 

299 


300  HENKY  BOURLAND 

noise,  and  Randall  can't  make  enough  by  himself."  So 
the  Hewitt  children  —  Martia,  Floss,  and  Little  John,  as  he 
was  called  —  were  sent  over  with  a  box  of  gifts. 

Anderson  came  last,  laden  like  Santa  Glaus  with  a  sack. 

Christmas  eve,  that  year,  was  truly  merry.  First  came 
the  children's  hour,  Major  Talcott  presiding  with  inimi 
table  stories,  and  Bourland  and  Anderson  assisting  with 
some  boisterous  and  altogether  undignified  play.  But  at 
nine  o'clock  the  youngsters  hung  up  their  stockings  and 
packed  off  to  bed.  The  elders,  after  their  departure,  began 
to  dress  a  tree  cut  from  the  woodland.  Major  Talcott 
was  assiduously  by  Eleanor's  side,  much  to  Anderson's 
disgust ;  and  when  he  persisted  in  his  attentions,  Ander 
son  went  off  to  a  corner  and  sulked  in  a  most  gentlemanly 
silence.  At  half -past  ten  Randall  and  Little  John  were 
caught  taking  alternate  peeps  through  the  keyhole,  and 
two  timorous  little  seraphs  (all  four  in  nightgowns^and 
bare  feet)  were  discovered  sitting,  with  feminine  courage, 
on  the  top  stair  of  the  hallway.  Amid  their  shrieks  of 
delight  (and  the  echoes  rang  through  the  old  house  like  a 
psean  of  redemption)  Bourland  drove  them  scampering 
back  to  bed,  and  punished  each  one  with  a  kiss.  Before 
midnight,  the  tree  was  dressed,  the  stockings  were  filled, 
the  children's  gifts  were  laid  on  the  quarter  sections  of  the 
square  grand  piano,  and  Elsie  and  Bourland,  the  major 
and  the  aunt,  were  deep  in  a  game  of  whist,  while  Ander 
son,  elate  among  mankind,  was  playing  cribbage,  in  that 
sulky  corner,  with  Eleanor. 

Two  hours  later  darkness  reigned  throughout  the  Hall, 
save  when  the  flickerings  from  the  fireplace  momentarily 
illumined  the  watchful  portraits  in  the  silent  parlor. 

Early  in  the  morning  the  children,  mindful  of  the 
expulsion  the  night  before,  took  full  revenge.  At  six 
o'clock  four  angels  from  Gabriel's  legion  began  to  blow 
unheavenly  horns,  which,  like  the  voice  in  Macbeth's 
hallucination,  cried  out  "  Sleep  no  more  "  to  all  the  house. 

During  the  forenoon  the  children  were  busy  with  their 
gifts.  Anderson,  who  declared  that  camp  life  had  made 
him  an  admirable  purveyor  of  food  stuffs,  hung  close  to 


ANOTHER   CHRISTMAS   AT   THE   HALL       301 

the  commissary  department  and  Eleanor.  Major  Talcott, 
concealing  disappointment  with  true  chivalry,  entertained 
the  aunt,  a  garrulous  maiden  of  forty-four,  who  still  cher 
ished  hopes.  Bourland  and  Elsie  went  for  a  morning 
ramble  among  the  haunts  of  their  lost  comradeship. 

The  familiar  objects,  the  landmarks,  the  reminiscent 
flavor  of  the  very  air,  seemed  to  conjure  back  the  elfin  girl 
who  once  had  raced  the  fields  with  unbound  hair. 

"  I  wonder  if  I  could  do  it  now  ?  "  she  said,  stopping 
under  an  apple  tree  and  reaching  up  to  the  lower  branches. 

"  Of  course  not,"  replied  Henry,  with  a  scorn  that  was 
an  irresistible  temptation  to  try. 

She  made  the  trial,  raising  herself  with  the  ease  of  an 
athlete  till  her  shoulders  touched  the  bough.  She  swung 
there  until  she  began  to  gasp,  and  then  she  dropped  to 
the  ground. 

"It  isn't  worth  climbing  now.  There  are  no  apples 
there."  The  effort  had  wrought  her  superb  bosom  to  a 
pulsating  rise  and  fall ;  the  crimson  of  the  autumn  fruit 
flushed  her  cheeks. 

"No,  there  are  no  apples  there  now — only  the  memories 
of  apples,"  he  answered  sadly. 

"  Oh,  there  is  where  the  old  haystacks  used  to  be,"  she 
cried  out,  pointing  toward  the  barn. 

"  Do  you  remember  your  leap  from  the  window  ? " 
He  asked  the  question  carelessly,  but  some  recollection 
deepened  the  crimson  on  her  face. 

The  three  children  had  been  playing  pioneers.  The 
barn  was  the  stockade,  and  having  been  besieged  by 
Indians,  they  had  taken  refuge  in  the  haymow.  At  last 
the  time  had  come  (time  can  pass  at  will  in  books  and 
plays)  when  their  water  was  gone,  their  food  exhausted, 
and  only  four  charges  of  powder  remained.  Capture, 
scalping,  death  at  the  stake,  awaited  them  from  the  sav 
ages  outside.  It  was  the  crisis  for  a  manly  deed.  "  I'll 
make  a  sortie,  sister  and  little  wife,"  he  said.  "  If  you  see 
me  get  killed,  take  these  knives  (they  were  of  laths  torn 
from  the  chicken  coop),  and  follow  me  to  the  happy  hunt 
ing  ground.  Don't  let  them  take  you  alive.  Good-by." 


302  HENEY  BOUELAND 

He  bent  down  to  kiss  her,  a  play  kiss,  such  as  he  had 
often  given  before.  But  the  caprice  of  the  girl,  or  per 
haps  the  growing  revelation  of  the  dignity  of  womanhood, 
put  an  unexpected  limit  to  the  privileges  of  play.  She 
wouldn't  be  kissed.  Her  refusal  aroused  the  thwarted 
tyrant,  and  h^  vowed  that  she  should.  Growing  more 
determined  as  the  pitch  of  his  passion  rose,  she  sought  to 
escape.  They  scrambled  over  the  hay,  the  one  nimble,  the 
other  bent  on  his  desire,  until  he  had  cornered  her.  Then, 
with  an  impulse  of  desperation,  too  proud  to  be  conquered, 
by  a  sudden  movement,  she  eluded  him  and,  with  a  jump, 
flung  herself  out  of  the  window  on  to  the  haystack  near  by. 
He  stopped,  dazed  at  her  boldness,  for  it  was  a  leap  of 
dangerous  breadth.  But,  plucking  his  courage,  he  fol 
lowed  her,  and  in  the  struggle  he  overpowered  her  rudely, 
brutally,  and  forced  his  lips  upon  her  hot  face,  damp  with 
the  tears  of  intense  physical  strain. 

The  incident  was  a  crisis  in  their  lives.  The  limitations 
of  play  privileges  were  observed,  and,  thereafter,  between 
the  give  and  take  of  coquetry  and  raillery,  there  stood  the 
silent  barrier  of  mutual  reticence. 

And  now,  years  after,  man  and  woman  grown,  they 
ranged  again  over  the  vast  plains  on  which  they  had 
hunted  the  buffalo  ;  they  walked  along  the  willow  bank 
from  which  they  had  fished  for  sunnies  with  pin  hooks  ; 
they  visited  the  Pocahontas  stone  in  the  copse  of  ash  trees, 
where,  more  than  once,  John  Smith  had  escaped  the  his 
toric  skull-crushing ;  and  they  discovered  forgotten  re 
minders  of  their  Avild  games,  sports  from  which  the  demure 
Eleanor  often  retired  for  the  more  domestic  concerns  of 
samplers  and  tatting. 

As  they  came  back  to  the  Hall,  she  went  across  the 
lawn  to  a  beech  tree  down  by  the  spring  house.  He  fol 
lowed  wonderingly. 

"  Oh,  they  are  still  there  !  "  she  exclaimed  with  an  out 
burst  of  gladness. 

"  What  ?  "  he  asked. 

Her  look  was  a  reproach. 

"  Don't  you  remember  ?  "     She  pointed  to  their  initials, 


ANOTHER   CHRISTMAS   AT   THE   HALL       303 

black,  yet  still  distinct,  in  the  tough  bark  of  the  beech. 
"  It  was  thirteen  years  ago  last  August,"  she  added.  "  I 
read  aloud  from  4  The  Lamplighter '  while  you  cut  them. 
There  was  a  great  thunderstorm  just  before  supper." 

"  They  are  archives  of  our  youth,  aren't  they  ?  " 

"  Oh,  you  had  forgot  all  about  them.  They  are  rather 
the  symbols  of  —  " 

She  stopped. 

"  Of  what  ?  "  he  asked  with  tenderness. 

"  Of  something  that  frequently  happens  in  the  world. 
Come,  let  us  go  in.  I'm  hungry  as  a  bear.  It  has  been 
a  very  happy  morning  for  us,  hasn't  it  ?  " 

She  turned  and  walked  thoughtfully  to  the  house. 

Yes,  it  had  been  a  happy  morning,  Bourland  thought. 
He  remembered  the  most  delicious  moment  of  it,  when  he 
had  taken  her  in  his  arms,  and  lifted  her  up,  so  that  she 
could  peer  into  the  window  of  the  deserted  mill. 

Her  mood  had  been  something  of  a  riddle  ;  she  had  been 
shy,  sad,  and  yet,  withal,  frankly  joyous. 

After  dinner,  Anderson  and  Eleanor  went  for  a  drive. 
Elsie  and  her  aunt  retired  to  their  rooms,  while  Bourland 
and  the  major,  after  a  smoke  and  siesta,  rode  out  on  horse 
back. 

When  Bourland  returned,  as  he  mounted  the  stairs,  he 
heard  a  voice  in  the  hallway  above,  which  caused  him  to 
stop.  It  was  Elsie,  with  the  children  around  her,  telling 
a  story.  He  sat  down  on  the  steps,  out  of  view,  and  lis 
tened  to  the  narrative. 

"  So  she  gave  the  old  woman  her  pitcher  of  water,  ask 
ing  her  if  she  shouldn't  run  home  to  get  her  a  cup.  '  My 
dear,'  said  the  old  crone,  after  she  had  taken  a  long  drink, 
4  you  are  not  at  all  like  your  vain  and  wicked  sister ;  you 
are  a  very  kind-hearted  girl,  and  I  am  going  to  reward 
you  for  your  goodness  to  an  ugly  old  woman  like  me,'  and 
before  the  girl  could  say  a  word  from  wonder  the  ragged 
beggar  was  transformed  into  a  beautiful  woman  dressed 
with  silk  and  gold  lace.  Just  think  of  that,  Martia  and  Floss 
and  John  and  Randall.  Wouldn't  you  like  to  see  her? 
Well,  she  came  to  the  maid  and  said,  4  Now  this  is  your 


304  HENKY   BOUKLAND 

reward ;  hereafter  every  time  you  speak,  with  each  word 
there  shall  fall  from  your  lips  a  diamond,'  and  as  she  said 
these  words,  she  touched  the  girl's  lips  with  her  wand, 
which  was  a  bar  of  pure  gold  set  with  pearls." 

The  children  began  to  clap  their  hands  with  approval. 

"  I'd  talk  an  awful  lot  if  I  was  her,"  put  in  Little  John. 

"  Crickety,"  said  Randall,  "  if  that  other  girl,  the  wicked 
one  that  dropped  toads,  lived  in  our  house,  she'd  have  to 
have  a  plaster  put  over  her  mouth." 

"  Isn't  it  almost  time  for  the  prince  to  come?"  said 
Bourland,  in  a  sepulchral  voice,  rising  from  his  place  of 
concealment. 

There  was  a  chorus  of  shrieks,  the  loudest  of  which 
came  from  Elsie  herself. 

It  was  an  entrancing  picture  which  he  saw.  Elsie,  to 
please  the  children,  had  gone  to  the  clothes-press  and  had 
decked  herself  in  old  grandmother  garments.  There  she 
stood,  for  escape  was  cut  off,  arrayed  in  capacious  hoops 
under  a  pink  brocade  gown,  with  diminutive  waist,  and 
bare  arms  and  neck,  half  concealed  under  a  bit  of  antique 
Mechlin.  Her  hair  was  powdered  white,  her  face  rouged, 
and  on  her  cheeks  were  cross-patches  of  black  court 
plaster  —  a  figure  of  dainty  quaintness  such  as  one  sees 
nowadays  only  in  old  pictures  or  on  the  stage. 

"  Go  on  with  the  story,"  said  Henry.  "  Don't  let  me 
interrupt  it." 

"  But  I  look  like  —  like,"  her  embarrassment  could  not 
find  a  likeness. 

"  Like  something  sweet  and  beautiful  come  out  of  the 
past,"  he  exclaimed. 

Her  eyes  dropped  from  his  to  the  floor,  and  the  rouge 
concealed  the  flush  of  her  pleasure. 

She  tried  to  finish  the  story,  telling  how  the  fame  of 
the  diamond-dropping  maiden  spread  abroad,'  and  how 
the  country's  prince  came  and  married  her,  but  the  charm 
of  the  juvenile  style  was  broken  by  the  presence  of  Bour 
land.  She  brought  the  narrative  to  an  abrupt  close,  and 
then  refusing  four  pleading  requests  for  4  Just  one  more,' 
she  made  her  escape. 


ANOTHER   CHRISTMAS   AT   THE   HALL       305 

She  left  Bourland  in  a  thoughtful  mood.  He  had  come 
to  realize  that,  in  believing  the  gossip  about  her,  he  had 
done  her  great  wrong.  The  affection  of  the  children, 
whose  natural  likes  and  dislikes  are  so  often  a  wiser 
judgment  of  character  than  the  subtler  analysis  of  older 
folk,  had  made  him  see  her  in  the  radiance  of  a  new  light. 
There  was  a  tenderness  about  her  now,  such  as  comes 
into  the  lives  of  those  who  secretly  desire,  and  yet  are 
denied,  the  prizes  of  motherhood.  No,  she  was  certainly 
no  longer  the  Elsie  of  old,  the  small-souled  slave  of  vanity 
and  self.  The  harsh  tutelage  of  the  years  had  brought 
her  knowledge,  and  some  beautiful  regret,  more  sacred 
than  her  sorrows,  had  lifted  her  above  the  level  of  her 
folly. 

And  underneath  all,  deeply  hidden  in  the  depths  of  her 
nature,  Bourland  seemed  to  feel  that  there  dwelt  within 
her  some  splendid  unburned  passion,  something  await 
ing  a  consuming,  sacrificial  fire  —  a  possession  of  the 
hoarded,  unclaimed  riches  of  her  womanhood. 

And  yet  he  could  not  exorcise  altogether  the  influence 
of  those  rumors.  They  left  upon  his  mind,  in  spite  of  his 
sympathies,  a  doubt,  a  distrust  of  her  character. 

About  dusk  he  went  out  of  doors  in  search  of  one  of 
the  servants.  As  he  came  back,  he  observed  her  walking 
toward  the  family  cemetery.  She  was  going,  alone,  to 
pay  her  deference  to  her  godfather's  grave. 

"  She  must  have  a  good,  pure  heart  to  do  such  a  thing, 
of  her  own  will,"  mused  Bourland. 

He  watched  her  open  the  rusty  gate  ;  he  saw  her 
search  among  the  tablets,  bending  down  to  read  the 
inscriptions  in  the  gloaming  light.  Pausing  beside  one, 
she  bent  her  head  in  reverence,  and  at  last  put  her  hands 
to  her  face,  as  if  to  wipe  tears  from  her  eyes. 

Bourland  avoided  her  return.  She  passed  through  the 
gate  again,  returned  to  the  Hall,  and  went  immediately  to 
her  room. 


CHAPTER   XXXIX 

A   MAN-TRAP   AND   A   MAN 

GENERAL  BARLOWE  sat  in  his  hotel  apartment,  await 
ing  visitors.  He  busied  himself,  meanwhile,  with  reading 
the  draft  of  the  bill  for  the  projected  railroad. 

A  rap  sounded  on  the  door,  and,  after  a  response,  a  man 
entered. 

The  general  stared  at  the  stranger  without  giving  any 
sign  of  recognition. 

" Parker, '? said  the  visitor.     "William  Parker." 

"Oh,  yes.  Parker  of  Lacamac.  I'm  glad  to  see  you. 
Sit  down,  Mr.  Parker."  He  did  not  rise  from  his  seat. 
"You'll  excuse  an  old  soldier  for  not  getting  up." 

"So  you  are  out  of  a  job,  eh?"  queried  Baiiowe,  after 
some  casual  remarks. 

" My  term  of  office  has  expired,"  replied  Parker,  with  an 
attempt  at  dignity. 

Barlowe  remained  silent  some  time,  twirling  his  thumbs. 

"Radical  stock  not  very  high  in  Lacamac,  eh?" 

"We  were  beaten  by  intimidation  and  fraud." 

"The  devil!  You  don't  say  so!"  Barlowe  appeared 
to  enjoy  a  joke.  "  Bourland  was  too  smart  for  you  this 
time,  I  hear.  He  managed  the  circus,  and  you  played  the 
clown." 

"Smart?"  sneered  Parker.  "There  is  nothing  smart 
about  him.  He's  only  the  gas  man." 

"I  wish  I  could  tap  his  tank,  and  get  some  of  the  gas. 
He's  going  to  do  a  taking  turn  on  the  stage  before  long, 
or  I'm  much  mistaken.  People  around  here  say  he's  sena 
torial  caliber.  He  may  be  the  big  Mogul  of  the  state, 
and  we'll  all  have  to  turn  in  and  shout  for  him."  Barlowe 
watched  closely  the  effect  of  his  words. 

306 


A  MAN-TRAP  AND  A  MAN  307 

Parker  winced  and  ground  his  teeth. 

"I  sent  for  you,"  continued  Barlowe.  "Do  you  want 
to  get  back  into  remunerative  politics  ?  " 

"I'm  not  in  need  of  money.     But  I  hate  to  be  idle." 

"Your  Radical  party,  it  seems,  has  gone  to  smash. 
How  would  you  like  to  join  a  new  party?" 

"Whose?" 

"Mine, "said  Barlowe,  bluntly;  adding,  "In  three  years 
I  shall  be  the  master  of  this  state." 

"Is  Bourland  to  join  you?" 

"I  don't  know.  I've  got  to  draw  him  in  or  else  —  " he 
stopped  and  eyed  his  visitor  —  "  or  else  tread  on  him  like 
a  cockroach." 

Parker  jumped  up,  flaming  with  scarlet  zeal,  and 
brought  his  fist  down  on  the  table. 

"That's  it!  "  he  shouted.  "Tread  on  him,  or  you  can't 
have  me.  No,  never!  By  God,  I'm  going  to  hound  that 
damn  snob  until  I  see  him  in  rags.  I'm  going  to  kick 
him  out  of  house  and  home." 

"Well,"  mused  Barlowe,  aloud,  "I've  got  to  get  him  in 
my  power  first.  I  need  you  to  help  me." 

"I'll  help,  and  be  glad  of  the  chance." 

"You'd  like  to  get  hold  of  that  mortgage  on  his  house, 
wouldn't  you?" 

Parker  answered  with  an  eager  affirmative. 

"  I  know  who  has  it,  and  I  can  get  him  to  sell  it  to  you. 
But  to  carry  out  my  plan,  I  want  you  to  let  me  hold  the 
deeds  of  his  land,  your  land,  for  a  few  weeks.  I  also  want 
permission  to  sell." 

Parker  was  reluctant  to  give  them  over  until  he  knew 
more  of  the  scheme. 

"It's  this  way,"  explained  Barlowe.  "I  want  to  hold 
out  the  mortgage  on  the  house,  and  the  possibility  of  his 
getting  back  his  land,  as  a  bait.  If  I  can  tempt  him,  he 
will  come  under  my  thumb,  and  he  won't  move  afterward 
except  as  I  bid  him.  There  isn't  any  risk.  The  transfer 
need  not  be  made  until  after  I  have  him  tied  with  my 
leading  strings." 

Parker  still  held  off. 


308  HENRY   BOURLANI) 

"The  lands  are  no  good  to  you  without  the  Hall," 
argued  Barlowe.  "  They  are  no  better  than  other  lands 
which  you  can  now  buy  for  half  their  cost." 

"  That's  true  enough,"  replied  Parker.  "  But  I  want  to 
be  sure  of  what  will  happen.  If  it  was  certain  that  he 
would  be  ruined  —  " 

"Well,  "broke  in  Barlowe,  testily,  "keep  your  deeds, 
then.  I  can  work  my  scheme  with  the  mortgage  alone. 
I'll  throw  you  overboard  altogether,  and  I'll  make  a  sen 
ator  of  Bourland  as  sure  as  the  Day  of  Judgment.  But 
I'll  give  you  this  chance.  You  help  me,  and  I'll  send 
you  to  Congress." 

"Will  you  promise  to  smash  him?" 

"Yes,  in  time.  I  don't  want  to  hurt  him  more  than  I 
have  to,  for  he's  a  good  fellow.  But  I'll  promise  you 
he'll  never  be  senator." 

"You  are  leading  me  blindly  into  an  uncertain  game." 

"  Of  course.     What  do  you  expect  in  politics  ?  " 

Parker  still  swayed  in  indecision. 

"I'll  put  you  in  a  way  of  getting  the  mortgage  on  his 
house.  That's  a  good  argument.  You  must  be  sharp. 
But  once  get  it,  you  can  do  what  you  please  with  it." 

Parker,  who  desired  nothing  else  so  much,  at  last 
yielded,  and  promised  the  deeds. 

"Now  to  the  other  business,"  proceeded  Barlowe.  "I 
can  use  you.  They  tell  me  you  have  great  influence  over 
the  niggers.  I  want  you  to  begin  at  once  to  disorganize 
what  is  left  of  the  Radical  party.  Use  your  own  methods. 
Keep  up  the  bitterness  against  the  aristocrats.  I'll  send 
you  further  instructions  later.  Remember  now,  the  prize 
is  a  seat  in  Congress." 

After  some  further  conversation  Parker  took  his  leave. 

"Well,  this  is  a  good  beginning  for  the  job,"  muttered 
Barlowe  to  himself.  "But  I  want  both  of  those  men. 
Just  think,  a  handsome,  eloquent  F.  F.  V.  with  an 
armorial  crest,  and  a  nigger  medicine  man  —  wouldn't 
they  make  a  fine  pair  of  stallions  to  draw  my  political 
barouche  up  the  hill?" 

An  hour  later  Clayton  entered  the  room. 


A  MAN-TKAP  AND  A  MAN  309 

He  was  a  man  of  large  bulk,  with  a  rather  genial  coun 
tenance.  In  dress  he  was  conspicuously  untidy;  there 
were  wrinkles  and  spots  in  his  clothes,  while  his  linen 
was  almost  the  color  of  unbleached  muslin.  He  had  not 
shaved  for  two  or  three  days,  and  at  the  corners  of  his 
mouth  were  signs  of  tobacco. 

"Hello,  Clayton,"  said  Barlowe,  without  stirring. 
"What  is  the  latest  quotation  on  delegates?" 

"They  are  down  fifty  points.     I  gathered  in  five." 

"Keep  the  change.     You've  earned  it." 

"We've  got  to  have  some  of  the  agrarians,  however, 
or  the  bill  will  never  go  through." 

"Have  you  seen  the  colonel?" 

"I  had  a  talk  with  him,  told  him  a  rigmarole,  — how  I 
got  hold  of  the  mortgage  on  the  Hall,  —  was  pressed  for 
money  just  now, —  that  Parker  had  been  at  me  half  a  dozen 
times  to  buy,  —  that  I  wished  to  give  him  a  chance  to 
redeem  it  first,  and  then  a  lot  of  stuff  about  us  Virginians 
and  that  Yankee  scamp.  I  could  see  it  took  him." 

"Well,  what  did  he  say?" 

"He  said  he  couldn't  do  anything  about  it  now;  just  at 
this  time  his  funds  were  tied  up.  The  beggar,  he  couldn't 
raise  a  thousand  on  his  bond.  Then  he  asked  me  to  give 
him  a  year." 

"What  then?"  asked  Barlowe,  with  interest. 

"I  told  him  I'd  give  him  a  month.  If  he  couldn't 
raise  the  money  by  that  time,  I'd  sell  to  Parker." 

"Good,"  said  Barlowe.  "I  guess  you've  got  him  prop 
erly  worked  up  for  me  to  take  the  turn.  Now  let  the 
devil  enter,  money  in  hand,  and  if  he  doesn't  take  it,  he's 
—  well,  he's  the  fellow  old  Diogenes  couldn't  find  with 
his  candle.  You  can  go  now,  I'm  busy.  Stop  a  minute, 
one  question  more.  How's  your  wife?" 

"Things  are  worse  than  ever.  She's  made  a  fool  of 
me,  and  I'm  a  fool  for  letting  her  do  it.  That's  my  weak 
ness,  I  suppose.  But  you  don't  know  her,  General." 

"Can't  you  get  a  divorce?" 

"It  isn't  so  easy  in  Virginia.  Besides,  the  witnesses 
needed  are  on  the  other  side  of  the  ocean.  I  won't  do 


310  HENKY   BOURLAND 

that  anyway.  It  is  what  she  wants.  She'd  marry  very 
soon  if  she  could  get  free." 

"Who?" 

"Bourland."  He  uttered  the  name  with  a  shamed 
face. 

Baiiowe  gave  a  long  whistle  of  surprise.  "  So  that's 
why  you  want  him  downed,  eh?"  he  said  with  a  smile. 
"My  plot  thickens,  as  they  say.  If  it  wasn't  real  life,  it 
might  do  for  a  novel." 

During  the  next  week  the  railroad  bill  was  given  a  first 
reading  in  the  legislature,  and  another  emissary  of  Barlowe 
visited  Bourland  and  offered  to  sell  him  the  whole,  or  a 
part,  of  his  lost  lands. 

Bourland  shook  his  head  sadly.  "  Come  to  me  five,  ten 
years  from  now,  friend.  Perhaps  I  can  talk  to  you 
then." 

"I'll  hold  them,  anyway,  for  a  while,"  said  the  man; 
adding  incautiously,  "A  rich  uncle  may  die  and  put  you 
in  funds."  The  proposal  of  Clayton,  coupled  with  this, 
aroused  his  suspicion  that  something  latent  in  his  political 
fortunes  was  soon  to  develop. 

The  night  before  the  day  when  the  railroad  bill  was  to 
come  up  for  a  vote,  Bourland  sat  in  his  room  making  a  last 
revision  of  his  speech.  He  had  worked  in  secret,  and  he 
proposed  to  blow  up  the  whole  conspiracy  in  one  dramatic 
effort.  He  felt  rather  confident  about  the  result,  for  he 
had  mastered  his  facts,  and  he  thought  he  should  take  its 
supporters  by  surprise,  and  drive  many  of  them  to  cover. 

He  was  dreaming  ambitious  dreams  nowadays. 

At  ten  o'clock  Barlowe  knocked  at  his  door.  "Hello, 
Bourland,"  he  said,  "what  are  you  digging  up  at  this 
hour  of  the  night?"  Their  relations  during  the  past 
months  had  been  outwardly  cordial,  and  Barlowe  was  quite 
unaware  of  Bourland's  purpose ;  for  the  latter,  seemingly 
busy  with  other  things,  had  shown  no  unusual  interest  in 
the  railroad  project. 

"I've  been  writing,"  he  said,  laying  down  his  pen,  and 
shoving  the  papers  into  a  drawer. 

"I'm  glad  to  see  a  man  work.     You've  got  the  brains 


A  MAN-TRAP  AND  A  MAN  311 

and  the  pluck  to  make  a  great  future.  If  I  were  as  young 
as  you,  I'd  get  up  and  hustle  for  just  what  you  are 
hustling!  "  Barlowe  smiled  a  fatherly  admiration. 

"What's  that?"  asked  Bourland. 

"Why,  the  Senate,  of  course.  Everybody  says  you  are 
on  the  way  to  it,  if  you  are  diplomatic,  and  don't  make 
any  political  enemies.  I've  dropped  in  to-night  to  talk 
it  over  with  you.  I  think  you  ought  to  begin  to  lay  your 
plans.  If  I  had  your  name  and  your  gift  of  oratory,  I'd 
make  you  sweat,  myself;  but  I  haven't.  So  I've  thought 
it  over,  and  decided  to  back  you.  You  see,"  he  put  in 
with  frankness  and  nonchalance,  "I  want  to  join  the  pro 
cession  early.  I  see  plainly  how  things  are  coming  on." 
He  spoke  with  no  trace  of  insincerity. 

"Well,"  said  Bourland,  with  growing  suspicion,  "a 
man  who  wouldn't  be  a  senator  if  he  could,  would  hardly 
be  a  full-blooded  native  of  Virginia.  However,  I'm  pretty 
young  yet  to  think  about  it." 

"  But  not  to  get  ready  for  it.  I  was  talking  to  a  rather 
long-headed  fellow  to-day.  'It's  too  bad  that  Bourland  is 
in  such  bad  shape  financially,'  said  he.  'He  can't  make  a 
show,  and  I  tell  you  show  goes  a  great  way  these  days.' 
And  he  hit  the  nail  exactly.  If  you  could  only  get  hold 
of  some  of  your  land  again,  and  could  open  the  Hall,  and 
entertain  your  friends  there,  as  your  father  did,  you  need 
only  to  pat  some  of  these  politicians  on  the  back  to  make 
loyal  liegemen  out  of  them.  To  hobnob  with  you  F.  F. 
V.'s  tickles  men's  vanity.  You  don't  make  use  of  your 
God-given  capital.  You  let  it  lie  fallow.  You've  got  to 
do  that  sort  of  thing,  if  you  want  political  power.  Then 
there's  that  splendid  war  record  of  yours,  — in  Pickett's 
charge  and  on  Lee's  personal  staff.  They  are  things  that 
will  make  votes." 

"  What  you  say  is  perfectly  true,  General.  I've  thought 
of  it  a  hundred  times.  But  I  can't  do  it.  I'm  not  able 
to  do  it."  His  suspicions  now  began  to  crystallize;  he 
knew  that  he  was  about  to  face  some  strong  temptation ; 
that,  ere  the  conversation  was  concluded,  he  would  either 
fall  from  his  standard  of  rectitude,  or  Barlowe  would  be 


312  HENRY   BOURLAND 

his  bitter  enemy.  "I'll  make  him  do  the  talking,"  he 
said  to  himself. 

But  Barlowe  appeared  to  have  said  all  he  had  to 
say.  He  lit  a  cigar,  took  a  book  from  the  table,  and 
began  to  run  through  its  pages.  At  last  he  put  the  book 
down. 

"I've  been  trying,"  he  said,  "to  recollect  something  a 
teacher  wrote  on  the  blackboard  for  a  writing  exercise  one 
day  when  I  was  a  ragamuffin  at  school.  We  had  to  copy 
it  five  times  in  our  book.  It  was  poetry,  I  think,  though 
I've  forgotten  the  jingle ;  something  to  this  effect :  'There 
is  a  tide  in  the  affairs  of  mankind  which,  if  you  launch 
on  the  flood,  will  lead  you  to  a  fortune.  But  if  you  let 
it  pass,  all  life's  voyage  is  stranded  on  the  shoals  of 
misery.  On  such  a  full  sea  are  we  now  afloat.  We  must 
take  the  current  when  it  comes,  or  lose  our  ventures.'  It 
hits  your  case  precisely,  Bourland,  and  I'm  in  the  same 
boat  with  you.  Good  hard  money  is  what  we  need  now, 
to  float  our  ship  to  port." 

"I  don't  know  where  to  get  it,"  said  Bourland,  aloud, 
while  inwardly  he  thought,  "Now,  General,  show  up  your 
hand." 

"I  know  where  to  get  it  —  for  both  of  us,"  he  blurted 
out  after  a  pause.  "These  railroad  people  want  us  to 
come  in  with  them,  and  give  the  weight  of  our  names  to 
the  corporation.  I  think  this  bill  is  a  good  thing;  hon 
estly  now,  I  do.  They  will  make  me  president  of  the 
road,  if  I  will  take  it,  and  you  can  get  something  else 
almost  as  good.  The  dummies  who  nominally  have  the 
places  now  will  resign  if  we  accept." 

"  But  you  know,  General,  that  I  said  I  was  opposed  to  it 
long  ago." 

"Yes,  but  that  was  offhand;  you  hadn't  examined  into 
it  then.  I've  looked  into  it  since,  and  it's  all  right,  I  can 
assure  you.  They've  done  me  the  honor  to  offer  me  this 
position  of  president,  and  I  am  authorized  to  tender  to  you 
the  position  of  first  vice-president.  The  salary  will  be 
five  thousand  dollars  a  year,  and,  in  addition,  you  will 
receive  five  hundred  shares  of  preferred  stock.  You  can 


A   MAN-TKAP  AND   A   MAN  313 

sell  it,  and  with  the  money  put  yourself  into  shape,  open 
the  Hall,  get  back  some  of  your  lands,  and  it  will  be 
Senator  Bourland  in  four  years." 

The  vision  of  the  possibility,  breaking  so  suddenly,  took 
away  his  judgment.  He  could  save  the  Hall,  and  snap 
his  fingers  in  Parker's  face.  Now  that  the  temptation 
was  fully  before  him,  he  realized,  as  he  had  never  done 
before,  the  power  of  its  attraction.  It  drew  the  hard 
steel  of  his  resolution  like  a  magnet.  He  was  bewildered, 
like  one  in  the  play  of  an  electric  storm. 

"You  have  never  taken  a  public  position  against  the 
bill,  you  know,"  said  Barlowe,  picking  up  the  book  again 
and  carelessly  turning  its  pages. 

"But  I  have  in  my  own  conscience,  General.  I'm 
opposed  to  it.  I  don't  believe  in  it."  He  began  to  walk 
up  and  down  the  room.  A  cold  sweat  oozed  out  on  his 
forehead.  It  was  true,  an  inner  voice  told  him,  he  had 
never  given  public  utterance  to  any  opposition.  He  could 
say  to  the  world  that  his  judgment  declared  that  the  bill 
was  for  the  best  interests  of  the  state.  The  question  was 
certainly  debatable  and  open  to  difference  of  opinion. 

"  If  there  were  time,  I  could  prove  everything  to  your 
satisfaction.  But  it  is  too  late;  the  bill  goes  through 
to-morrow." 

"Why  didn't  you  come  to  me  before?"  Bourland  put 
the  question  sharply. 

"I  didn't  have  anything  to  say  to  you;  no  authority  to 
make  you  an  offer." 

Ambition  was  appealing  to  Bourland  with  secret  argu 
ments.  "Don't  make  any  political  enemies,"  it  said. 
"If  you  do,  say  good-by  to  me.  Just  think,  too,  this  is 
your  last  chance  to  save  the  Hall.  If  you  don't  use  it 
now,  Parker  will  drive  you  out,  as  he  has  sworn  to  do. 
The  mortgage  has  only  a  short  time  to  run." 

Barlowe  observed  that  he  was  making  a  strong  impres 
sion.  He  began  to  press  further.  "I  know  how  you  feel, 
Colonel.  You  don't  like  to  compromise  even  with  your 
self.  But  you've  got  to  in  politics.  Hold  your  judg 
ment  in  abeyance  in  order  that  great  results  may  not  be 


314  HENRY  BOURLAND 

thwarted.  Think  how,  if  you  once  got  started,  you  could 
serve  the  state." 

"  Don't  talk  any  more  to  me,  General.  I  want  to  think. 
I  realize  the  situation  fully.  It  is  simply  a  question  of 
weakness  or  strength."  He  was  sitting  down  in  a  chair, 
chill  in  every  member  of  his  body. 

The  temptation  affected  him  like  a  stroke  of  paralysis ; 
yet  he  could  think,  reason,  see  everything  very  clearly. 

It  was  simply  a  question  of  honor,  personal  honor.  He 
was  facing  that.  His  character  was  now  enduring  an 
ordeal  that  would  test  it,  stamp  it,  brand  it.  This  moment 
passed,  and  he  would  never  again  be  the  same  man.  He 
would  be  weaker,  on  the  road  to  rise  in  the  world's  esti 
mate,  perhaps,  but  to  degenerate,  to  rot  in  his  own  soul; 
or  else  he  would  be  stronger,  to  go  perhaps  into  obscurity, 
but  to  rise,  elevated  forever  by  an  approving  conscience, 
into  the  calm  heights  of  self-respect. 

With  Barlowe  against  him,  he  might  as  well,  indeed, 
fling  all  his  hopes,  his  cherished  dreams,  with  a  millstone 
into  the  sea. 

He  came  to  his  decision. 

He  walked  over  to  his  desk  and  took  out  some  papers. 
"See  here,  General,"  he  said,  holding  them  up,  "I  don't 
know  whether  you  are  aware  of  it  or  not,  but  for  months 
I've  been  working  up  the  case  against  this  bill,  and  I 
meant  to  kill  the  whole  conspiracy;  it  is  a  conspiracy,  you 
know  that.  I  probably  know  as  much  about  the  details 
of  it  as  you  do.  Here  are  statistics,  opinions,  estimates, 
testimonies  of  expert  engineers;  here  are  facts  showing 
how  it  was  conceived,  plotted,  and  matured;  here  is  some 
thing  else,  the  most  forcible  argument  of  all,  which  I 
shall  not  now  speak  of.  I  intended  to  make  a  speech 
to-morrow  using  this  material,  and  it  would  have  defeated 
the  bill,  or  I'm  much  mistaken.  For  I  can  prove  irrefutably 
that  the  road  must  fail." 

"That  is  all  bosh,"  said  Barlowe,  who,  though  he  felt 
like  a  man  sandbagged  in  the  dark,  betrayed  no  outward 
signs  of  surprise.  "Throw  all  those  papers  into  the 
fire." 


A  MAN-TRAP  AND  A  MAN  315 

"No,"  answered  Bourland,  with  slow,  quiet  determina 
tion,  "I  shall  make  that  speech  to-morrow." 

"You  make  me  laugh,"  broke  out  Barlowe,  after  a 
silence.  "A  man  like  you,  with  the  reputation  for  fraud, 
intimidation,  and  ruffian  politics,  nigger  hunting,  jail 
breaking;  a  man  with  such  a  record  behind  him,  to  put 
himself  upon  a  pedestal  of  honesty  and  conscience,  why, 
what  effect  do  you  suppose  your  speech  will  make?"  It 
was  all  said  in  perfect  good  nature.  He  showed  no  trace 
of  anger  or  irritation. 

"Come  to-morrow  and  see,"  answered  Bourland. 

"  I  suppose  you  realize  that  if  you  make  an  enemy  of 
me,  you  will  never  get  far  in  this  state  ?  " 

"The  future  will  have  to  determine  that." 

"It  is  downright  stupidity,  Bourland.  I  wanted  to 
help  you  along."  Barlowe  was  vexed  at  the  frustration 
of  his  benevolent  purpose. 

"Or  was  it  to  use  me?     Be  frank,  General." 

"Both.  Politicians  aren't  missionaries.  They  go  in 
for  themselves.  You  are  in  for  yourself,  aren't  you?" 

"Partly  so." 

"Is  your  decision  final?"     He  got  up  to  go. 

"Yes;  my  mind  is  quite  made  up." 

"You'll  go  it  alone?" 

"I  will." 

"  You  think  you  are  a  bigger  man  than  I  am,  don't  you  ?  " 
Still  there  was  no  sign  of  ill  temper. 

"That  question  hasn't  come  to  the  test  yet." 

"Oh  yes,  it  has.  You  are  the  bigger  man,  but  I'm  the 
bigger  politician.  Now,  my  Goliath,  look  out  for  your 
David,  for  he  is  going  to  hit  you  right  between  the  eyes. 
Good  night."  He  went  away,  smiling  at  his  apt  allusion. 

After  he  had  gone,  five  words  rang  in  Bourland's  sense 
of  hearing.  Fraud !  intimidation !  ruffian  politics !  nigger 
hunting !  jail  breaking !  What  vulnerable  openings  for  an 
enemy !  He  could  not  confess ;  he  could  not  deny  the  truth. 
He  was  caught,  caught  in  the  tangled  ironies  of  Nemesis. 

For  hours  he  lay  awake  that  night  in  the  despair  of  his 
honesty. 


CHAPTER  XL 

TWO   CRISES  IN   ONE   DAY 

"  STEADY,  Henry  Bourland,  this  is  your  chance  !  "  he 
kept  repeating  to  himself,  as  he  walked  over  toward  the 
Capitol  the  next  morning.  "  This  day  will  make  you  or 
break  you." 

Only  one  experience  in  all  his  history  had  ever  put  his 
nerves  to  such  an  intense  strain  —  the  occasion  when  he 
walked  ahead  of  his  men  across  the  valley  of  Gettysburg 
and  approached  slowly,  slowly,  slowly,  the  line  of  muskets 
that  were  waiting  to  blow  him  to  his  last  judgment.  That 
test,  however,  demanded  only  physical  courage.  To-day  he 
was  to  fight,  not  with  his  sword,  but  with  his  brain. 

And  his  intellect  that  morning  was  like  an  electric  bat 
tery  full  charged  ;  a  single  touch,  and  it  was  ready  to  flash 
and  discharge  an  irresistible,  quickening  current  of  thought 
and  language.  He  was  exhilarated  ;  he  was  conscious  of 
an  unwonted  keenness  of  perception  ;  he  realized  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life  that  he  was  possessed  of  real  genius, 
and  that  beneath  his  intellect  there  was  stored  a  reservoir 
of  fierce  indignation,  the  sceva  indignatio  of  the  deities. 
He  felt  himself  to  be  an  immeasurable,  personal  force. 

When  he  got  into  the  hall  of  delegates,  he  began  to  mis 
trust  himself.  Several  of  his  carefully  worded  phrases  and 
some  of  the  strong  points  of  his  argument  slipped  out  of 
his  memory  like  absconding  servants.  He  became  a  trifle 
nervous. 

The  routine  of  the  day  occupied  some  time,  but  the  rail 
road  bill  finally  came  up  for  its  last  reading.  Two  or  three 
supporters  made  rhetorical  speeches  in  its  defence  ;  two 
agrarians  made  speeches  against  it.  After  these  men 

316 


TWO  CRISES   IN   ONE  DAY  317 

Bourland  arose,  self-possessed,  and  he  opened  with  an  in 
cisive  utterance  which  awoke  the  attention  of  every  man 
in  the  hall  as  suddenly  as  the  blast  of  Gabriel's  trumpet 
shall  awaken  the  dead.  They  all  turned  toward  him  and 
bent  forward. 

"  This  bill,"  he  declared,  "  under  the  pretext  of  progress, 
is  a  gigantic  conspiracy  to  steal  several  millions  from  the 
treasury  of  the  state." 

He  paused.  The  sweeping  audacity  of  the  statement 
dawned  upon  him  in  an  appalling  light.  Here,  in  the  pub 
lic  hall,  the  words  rang  very  differently  from  the  frequently 
repeated  thought  of  his  secret  consciousness.  He  must 
prove  the  charge,  or  be  irretrievably  discredited. 

Dozens  of  men  around  him  had  thought,  had  said  in 
private  conversation,  the  same  thing ;  but  none  had  the 
knowledge  or  the  courage  to  assert  their  opinion  in  the 
open  field.  Bourland  stood  there  as  the  challenging 
champion. 

He  proceeded  to  analyze  the  text  of  the  bill,  showing 
ambiguous  phrases,  craftily  inserted,  whereby  the  state 
might  be  forced  into  increased  sponsorship  for  the  under 
taking. 

Next  he  read  letters  from  influential  men,  all  over  the 
state,  protesting  against  its  passage  as  an  unwise,  unneces 
sary  project. 

He  detailed  from  memory  statistics  of  the  traffic  and 
trade  of  the  district  through  which  the  projected  road 
was  to  pass,  showing  conclusively  that  the  receipts  could 
not  reach  half  the  amount  of  current  expenses. 

He  brought  forward  the  expert  testimony  of  engineers, 
who  declared  that  there  were  natural  difficulties  to  be 
overcome,  requiring  tunnels,  bridges,  embankments,  ob 
stacles  not  provided  for  in  the  estimates,  which  would 
demand  a  far  greater  outlay  of  money  than  the  proposals 
anticipated. 

He  introduced  evidence  proving  that  the  promoters  of 
the  enterprise  had  bought  up  the  land  of  the  projected 
route,  and  held  it  only  to  sell  again  to  the  corporation. 

He  asserted  that  the  road,  to  succeed,  must  be  joined 


318  HENRY  BOURLAND 

with  a  cobweb  of  other  roads  on  the  flanks  and  the  rear  ; 
that  these  would  probably  not  be  built  for  a  generation  ; 
that  failing  of  these,  the  present  enterprise  would  have  to 
be  subsidized  annually  by  the  state,  or  else  be  forced  into 
bankruptcy  with  a  total  loss  of  the  original  capital. 

"  But  what  do  the  chief  conspirators  care  ?  "  he  asked, 
turning  aside  from  statistics.  "They  can  lose  nothing, 
they  are  sure  to  win  in  either  case.  Suppose  the  road  is 
wrecked  ;  they  have  sold  their  landholdings,  sold  the 
contracts,  sold  the  stock,  and  some  of  them,  in  the  mean 
time,  have  been  receiving  large  salaries  as  officials.  The 
state  and  the  gullible  public  (and  I  understand  this  is  to 
be  a  Virginian  enterprise)  will  stand  all  the  losses." 

He  was  perfectly  at  ease  now,  certain  that  already  he 
had  made  a  case,  even  though  he  could  not  defeat  the 
bill.  He  was  winning  admiration  ;  he  knew  that.  He 
was  giving  his  fellow-legislators  a  signal  instance  of  the 
power  which  a  single  man  with  brains,  hard  work,  and 
an  honest  purpose  can  exercise  even  in  the  slough  of 
despond  of  politics. 

The  meditations,  the  mental  drill,  the  facts  and  phrases, 
all  the  resources  of  the  months  of  preparation,  were  at 
his  command  now.  In  the  excitement  of  the  occasion 
unconsciously  he  slipped  into  an  appeal  to  the  feelings 
with  a  bit  of  that  decorated  oratory  of  which  the  old 
Southerners  were  such  masters. 

"  Last  autumn  Hope  came  to  us  like  the  rose  of  a  new 
dawn,  when,  after  the  dark  days  of  storm  and  stress,  after 
the  years  of  humiliation,  bitter  as  the  waters  of  Marah, 
we  awoke  from  our  slumbers  of  apathy  and  came  forth 
in  our  banded  might  to  meet  the  glad  morning ;  when  we 
came  forth  with  renewed  energy  and  consecrated  devotion 
to  set  up  once  more  the  standard  of  our  civic  rights  ;  to 
cultivate  with  honest  toil,  to  guard  with  honest  purpose, 
this  noble  state  —  our  widowed  mother  —  left  to  us  as  the 
last  dear  memorial  of  our  noble  sires.  We  hoped  that  like 
them  of  old,  we  might  return,  as  the  children  of  Judah 
returned  from  their  exile  by  the  rivers  of  Babylon,  to 
build  anew  the  temple  of  our  fathers  and  our  fathers' 


TWO   CRISES  IN   ONE  DAY  319 

God.  And  God  has  given  us  back  our  heritage.  To-day 
we  sit  in  the  seats  of  power  and  responsibility  and  trust, 
and  our  mother  is  calling  upon  us  to  proclaim  ourselves  her 
sons.  And  who  is  there  among  you  so  deaf  that  he  can 
not  hear  that  call  ?  Or  so  base,  so  loathsome,  that  he 
would  betray  that  trust  which  our  people  of  Virginia  have 
reposed  in  him  ?  To-day,  my  friends,  as  we  face  this 
attack  of  the  insidious  enemy  in  our  midst,  let  us  think 
of  those  who  have  sent  us  here  to  fight  their  battles  and 
guard  their  rights,  let  us  be  mindful  of  Him  who  sits 
beyond  the  heavens,  whose  thunder  is  His  clarion,  and 
whose  lightning  is  His  sword.  God  watches  !  God  con 
demns,  and  the  voice  of  the  people  is  the  voice  of  God." 

He  made  a  pause  ;  he  was  forced  to  do  so,  for  the  out 
burst  of  enthusiasm  which  followed  would  have  drowned 
his  words.  There  were  a  few  impassive  faces,  some  scorn 
ful,  but  he  knew  he  had  conquered.  He  stood  erect,  wait 
ing  for  silence,  in  the  proud  consciousness  of  his  imperial 
strength. 

After  the  applause  had  subsided,  he  took  up  a  bundle  of 
papers  and  waved  them  in  the  air,  saying  at  the  same  time, 
in  a  changed,  business  tone  :  "  I  have  here  some  documents. 
They  will  prove  in  any  court  in  Virginia  that  five  men  in 
this  assembly  have  accepted  bribes  to  vote  for  this  bill.  I 
may  add  that  I  was  offered  a  bribe  myself,  a  heavy  one. 
If  any  of  these  five  men  votes  for  this  measure,  I  guarantee 
his  exposure  and  his  conviction." 

Individual  consciences  began  to  ask  the  question,  "Is 
it  I?" 

Bourland  sat  down;  a  giddiness  made  the  atmosphere 
visible  with  a  confusion  of  currents. 

A  man  sprang  up,  doubtless  posted  by  Barlowe,  and 
demanded,  in  the  name  of  the  house,  a  specification  of  the 
charges.  Bourland  refused  to  make  it  at  that  time.  The 
man  declared  that  he  intended  to  support  the  bill  because 
he  thought  it  a  good  thing ;  he  then  proceeded,  by  refer 
ence  to  facts,  local  to  Lacamac,  to  show  the  hypocrisy  of 
this  exponent  of  morality ;  but  the  majority  of  the  mem 
bers  understood  that  situation,  and  they  howled  him  down. 


320  HENEY   BOURLAKD 

This  action  came  as  a  great  surprise  to  Bourland;  it 
made  him  breathe  freely,  joyously.  It  added  a  grace  note 
to  the  victory. 

The  bill  came  to  a  vote,  and  it  was  defeated  by  a  small 
majority.  Barlowe,  when  his  name  was  called,  gave  an 
offhand  vote  in  the  negative.  He  had  never  been  publicly 
identified  with  the  bill,  and  by  going  on  record  against  it, 
he  thought  to  allay  the  effect  of  gossip  in  the  future  ;  for 
he  had  greater  projects  a-brewing. 

When  Bourland,  at  the  close  of  the  session,  was  the 
centre  of  a  group,  Barlowe  came  up  to  him  and  said  before 
them  all  :  "  That  was  a  fine  speech,  Colonel ;  the  cleanest 
piece  of  demonstration  I  ever  heard.  It  convinced  me. 
I  intended  to  vote  the  other  way.  You  deserve  great 
praise  for  your  work." 

Elsie  had  been  one  of  the  spectators  in  the  visitors' 
gallery. 

In  the  afternoon  Bourland  went  for  a  long  tramp  over 
the  country  down  toward  Dutch  Gap.  A  reaction  after 
the  strain  of  the  morning  had  brought  on  a  sudden  relaxa 
tion  and  a  headache.  He  desired  strong  physical  exer 
cise.  Over  the  ridges,  up  and  down,  he  rushed  like  one 
pursued.  Before  him  stretched  the  wide  reaches  of  undu 
lating  fields,  rising  from  the  James,  which  flowed  down  in 
the  line  of  a  tortuous  suture  and  disappeared  into  the  maw 
of  the  Gap. 

He  was  on  the  heights.  All  the  world,  it  seemed,  lay 
at  his  feet.  The  ambitions  of  a  boundless  future  kindled 
his  brain ;  a  procession  of  vivid  images  sped  before  his 
inward  vision,  pausing,  flashing  radiance  into  his  imagina 
tion  until  they  were  obscured,  dissolved  by  the  press  of 
more  glowing  pictures.  An  exultation  that  was  almost 
a  mental  intoxication  held  him  under  a  spell,  the  essence 
of  which  was  a  new  emotion,  a  fierce  lust  for  power. 

The  winds  swept  into  his  face,  cooled  the  swift  motion 
of  his  blood,  and  sent  a  delicious  chill  into  the  marrow. 
He  was  far  more  than  a  mere  thinking  intellect.  He  felt 
a  wild,  animal  elation  in  the  quickened  consciousness  of 
physical  existence  ;  an  ecstasy  so  keen,  so  brutal,  so  ener- 


TWO  CRISES  IN   ONE  DAY  321 

vating,  that  it  brought  an  irresistible  craving  for  some 
thing  to  quench  it. 

He  had  promised  to  call  upon  Elsie  in  the  evening.  In 
the  afternoon  he  made  a  resolution  not  to  go  near  her. 
At  nine  o'clock  he  was  standing  in  her  presence. 

She  wore  a  close-fitting  dress  of  dark  blue  silk  under  a 
network  of  black  lace,  but  the  gown  was  far  less  regal 
than  the  royalty  of  her  figure. 

"  I  was  afraid  you  wouldn't  come,  that  you  had  for 
gotten  all  about  me  in  the  midst  of  your  triumph,"  she 
said,  holding  out  her  hand. 

"  I  have  seen  your  face  a  hundred  times  to-day,"  he 
blurted  out  in  one  breath.  The  touch  of  her  hand  burnt 
him  all  over  ;  he  drew  his  own  away. 

He  sat  down  in  a  straight-backed  chair  ;  she  sat  oppo 
site  four  feet  distant  under  the  glow  of  a  lamp,  the  ruby 
glass  of  which  turned  the  blue  of  her  dress  into  a  tinge  of 
purple.  He  was  breathing  from  agitation  when  he  no 
ticed  that  her  eyes  were  inflamed  by  weeping. 

His  mood  instantly  changed.  The  thought  of  her 
tears  instantly  expelled  the  obsession  of  the  savage 
instinct  and  subdued  him  into  a  serving  cavalier. 

"  I  was  so  proud  of  you  to-day,"  she  went  on,  striving 
to  be  light-hearted.  "  I  heard  a  man  say  glorious  things 
behind  me.  He  said  that  speech  would  make  you  the 
most  conspicuous  man  in  Virginia,  and  that  nothing  could 
stop  you  now  from  getting  anything  you  wanted." 

"Never  mind  me,"  he  answered  very  tenderly.  "Tell 
me  what  has  happened  to  you.  I  have  a  suspicion  that  it 
is  something  dreadful." 

The  allegro  of  her  voice  slipped  down  into  the  minor. 

"  Yes,  something  has  happened."  She  stopped  to  gather 
strength  and  control  for  the  recital.  "  The  end  has  come 
to  this  terrible,  unnatural  life  I  have  been  leading.  I  sold 
myself  years  ago,  Henry.  Why?  There  were  many 
reasons.  I  hate  to  recall  them,  except  one,  perhaps  :  the 
helplessness  of  my  father.  I  have  been  a  wife  in  name, 
nothing  more.  For  years  Mr.  Clayton  treated  me  kindly, 
generously,  denying  me  nothing,  hoping  to  get  some  return 


322  HENRY   BOUKLAND 

of  affection.  But  I  loathed  him  after  the  first  week  of  my 
bondage.  I  didn't  do  my  duty.  But  don't  blame  me  too 
much.  Oh  !  I  couldn't !  I  couldn't !  I  can't  speak  of 
some  things.  I  endured  him  a  long  time.  Then  I  went 
away.  He  let  me  go.  I  lived  abroad.  But  I  was  all 
alone  in  the  world,  and  I  came  back.  He  seemed  glad  to 
have  me  return.  But  he  was  changed ;  worse,  far  worse 
than  ever.  I  couldn't  be  a  wife  to  him,  yet  he  insisted 
that  I  should  stay  in  his  house.  At  last  his  blind  infatua 
tion  turned  to  bitterness  and  hatred.  But  he  never  struck 
me.  I  think  that  he  is  afraid  of  me,  for  I  can  easily  master 
him.  That  is  the  strange  thing  about  it.  I'm  sure  if  I 
had  been  the  man  I  should  have  strangled  such  a  wife 
as  I  have  been  to  him.  But  I  don't  want  to  go  into  any 
more  details.  To-day  he  said  something.  I  wish  he  had 
struck  me  instead.  I  must  leave  his  house."  She  had 
begun  to  sob  in  the  middle  of  the  narrative. 

"  Why  did  you  not  leave  at  once  ?  "  asked  Bouiiand. 

"  I  told  you  I  should  be  here  to-night,  and  I  wanted  to 
see  you  to  say  good-by." 

"  4  Good-by '  ?     Where  are  you  going  ?  " 

She  cast  down  her  eyes,  and  fingered  the  lace  of  her  dress. 

"  My  resolution  will  surprise  you,"  she  replied,  not  look 
ing  up.  "  I  am  going  to  enter  a  convent." 

A  cry  of  protest  escaped  him. 

"  Yes,  for  a  time  at  least.  I  have  been  thinking  of  it 
for  a  long  while ;  in  fact,  ever  since  I  read  the  Memoirs  of 
Saint  Teresa.  Her  life  was  so  intense  and  calm." 

She  explained  how,  amidst  all  the  frivolity  and  selfish 
ness  of  her  existence,  in  her  moments  of  reflection  and 
desperation,  her  thoughts  had  been  led  toward  the  ideal 
of  self-abnegation  and  isolation.  "  I  have  a  sense  of  great 
guilt  on  my  soul.  I  am  not  like  commonplace  women.  I 
must  lead  some  kind  of  life  that  is  intense.  One  can  do 
that  as  a  nun ;  one  can  find  intense  joy  in  the  utter  cruci 
fixion  of  self.  I  must  do  it.  I'm  afraid  to  be  exposed  to 
temptation."  She  raised  her  eyes  and  looked  into  his  as 
she  pronounced  the  last  words,  and  her  look  drove  from 
his  mind  a  quixotic  plan  to  offer  her  a  home  with  Eleanor. 


TWO   CRISES   IN  ONE  DAY  323 

"  I  hate  to  have  you  sacrifice  yourself  that  way,"  he  said 
almost  inaudibly.  He  had  no  longer  any  sympathy  with 
monastic  isolation  in  these  days  of  the  nineteenth  century. 
Life  meant  work  in  the  great  world. 

"  I  have  quite  made  up  my  mind,"  she  replied.  "  It  is 
for  the  best." 

Steps  were  heard  outside,  and  the  fumbling  of  a  key  at 
the  door.  She  sprang  up  in  alarm. 

"  Oh,  go  !  go  !  "  she  cried.  "  I  didn't  think  he  would 
come  back  to-night.  No,  you  can't  go.  It  is  too  late." 

"  Do  you  think  I'm  afraid  of  him  ?  "  he  asked  scornfully. 

"  You  don't  know  all,"  she  stammered,  shrinking  with 
fear  into  a  smaller  body. 

"Be  calm,"  he  said  calmly.  "Go  sit  down."  She 
obeyed. 

The  front  door  was  opened,  and  in  a  moment  the  form 
of  Clayton  appeared  in  the  parlor  doorway.  His  eyes  were 
bloodshot;  his  body  swayed  unsteadily  until  he  braced 
himself  against  the  jamb  for  support. 

"  Well,  blast  my  eyes,"  he  muttered  in  a  maudlin  sing 
song,  "you ,  if  you  ain't  at  the  game  again." 

"  You  cur  !  "  exclaimed  Bourland,  springing  up,  a  geyser 
of  wrath.  "  How  dare  you  apply  such  vile  words  to  your 
wife  ?  " 

Clayton  tried  to  speak,  but  he  uttered  only  a  drunken 
hiccough,  which  was  followed  by  a  silly  grin.  He  tried 
again,  and  spoke  two  words,  —  the  first  with  the  accent  of 
an  incredulous  question,  and  the  second  with  a  sneer  of 
disgust. 

"Wife?     Hell!" 

Bourland's  hot-headed  impulse  had  been  to  strike  him, 
but  such  a  dramatic  denouement  was  repugnant  to  a  second 
glance  at  the  situation. 

To  strike  a  drunken  man,  —  in  his  own  house,  —  for 
maligning  a  suspected  wife.  It  contained  the  lurking- 
essence  of  comedy. 

"  Have  you  been  stealing  some  more  papers  and  telling 
some  more  lies  about  bribery  ?  "  Clayton  managed  to  utter 
with  great  difficulty  to  Elsie. 


324  HENRY   BOURLAND 

Bonrland  strode  up  to  him,  and  pinned  him  by  the  throat 
against  the  wall. 

"Don't  hurt  him,"  pleaded  Elsie,  laying  a  hand  upon 
his  arm. 

"  I  won't,  don't  fear,"  he  answered,  still  retaining  his 
grip.  Then  he  shook  him,  and  glared  into  his  cloudy  eyes. 
k'  Wake  up,  you  drunken  fool,  and  hear  what  I  say."  He 
delivered  the  rest  in  fierce,  single  words.  "  She  never  told 
me  a  syllable,  not  a  syllable.  You  told  another  man  your 
self  when  you  were  dead  drunk." 

"  You  tell  that  to  the  marines.  Don't  you  say  it  to 
Barlowe.  He'd  believe  you.  Oh  !  that's  all  right  —  just 
as  Barlowe  said.  You  beat  us  square,  you  and  the  woman. 
OhercTiey  la  famme:  that  means  there's  a  woman  in  the 
case.  It's  French.  I'm  no  fool.  Cherchey  la  famme  — 
that's  what  Barlowe  said.  But  just  you  wait  —  you  and 
the  woman,  damn  her."  He  got  the  words  brokenly  past 
Bourland's  grip  on  his  throat.  "  Let  me  be.  I  want  to 
go  to  bed.  I  know  I'm  drunk  now." 

"  Let  me  take  him,"  said  Elsie.  "  I  know  how  to  man 
age  him.  I  have  done  it  many  times  before.  Wait  for 
me  until  I  come  down." 

She  went  up  to  Clayton  and  took  his  face  in  her  hands. 
"Jim,"  she  cried  sternly,  "I  want  you  to  come  with  me. 
Don't  make  any  fuss  about  it,  for  you  are  going." 

She  put  her  arm  under  his,  and  he  meekly  went  with 
her  upstairs. 

In  twenty  minutes  she  reappeared,  dressed  for  the  street. 

"  Will  you  take  me  over  to  my  aunt's  on  Grace  Street  ?" 

He  put  on  his  overcoat  and  took  up  his  hat  silently. 

Before  they  left  the  room  she  took  from  her  fingers  three 
rings,  —  an  emerald  set  with  diamonds,  a  large  brilliant, 
and  a  band  of  plain  gold.  She  tossed  them  carelessly 
upon  the  mantelpiece,  saying,  "  Mere  baubles  now,  but  I 
used  to  set  my  heart  on  such  things." 

They  walked  through  the  dark  streets,  each  pondering 
a  fateful  problem,  and  when  he  said  good  night  at  her 
aunt's  residence,  her  hands  were  as  cold  as  frost. 


BOOK   IX 
THE  KISE   OF  THE  READJUSTEES 


CHAPTER  XLI 

SUGGESTIONS  OF  SEVEEAL  POSSIBILITIES 

TIME  has  made  a  few  strides,  taking  along  the  world  of 
men  and  their  changing  fortunes.  Little  Chap  is  now  big 
enough  to  saddle  a  horse  ;  he  can  climb  any  tree  in  the 
orchard ;  he  resents  the  diminutive  part  of  his  nickname, 
and  to  soothe  his  pride,  the  elders  have  dropped  it. 

His  father  takes  him  as  a  companion  to  all  the  political 
meetings  and  rallies,  for  Bourland  intends  that  the  boy 
shall  follow  a  public  career,  and  he  introduces  the  young 
ster  to  everybody.  "  You  must  make  all  the  friends  you 
can,  Chap,"  he  says.  "  You  can't  begin  too  early.  I 
wasted  a  great  deal  of  time."  To  his  acquaintances,  by 
way  of  apology  for  the  boy's  presence,  he  declared:  "I 
want  him  to  take  to  his  civic  duties  like  mother's  milk. 
Besides,  he  acts  on  me  like  a  monitor,  and  keeps  the  old 
man  steady." 

Eleanor  writes  regularly  and  frequently  to  Anderson, 
and  the  Yankee,  after  repeated  readings,  puts  the  letters 
furtively  away  in  a  carefully  hidden  mahogany  case.  That 
same  box  contains  three  pressed  roses,  the  rubrics  of  a 
romance,  the  chapters  of  which  are  found  in  the  letters. 
One  rose  is  white,  another  is  yellow,  a  third  is  pink  —  all 
spoils  gathered  after  visits  to  the  Hall.  It  is  tacitly  under 
stood  between  them  that  when  he  obtains  the  prize  of  a 

325 


326  HENRY   BOUKLAND 

crimson  flower,  the  lady  will  name  the  happy  and  impa 
tiently  awaited  day.  On  the  last  visit  Anderson  almost 
captured  the  red  rose.  "  Wait  until  Henry  goes  to  Wash 
ington,"  she  pleaded,  with  assurance  of  its  imminence. 
"  I  don't  want  to  leave  him  alone  until  his  life  is  filled 
with  something  else."  The  Northern  lover  good-naturedly 
grumbled  and  mumbled  something  about  the  "  clan  pride," 
but  his  arguments  were  insufficiently  persuasive  to  con 
quer  it. 

During  this  meantime,  Bourland  had  not  been  idle. 
Financially,  it  is  true,  he  had  made  no  progress,  yet  he 
had  gained  an  honest,  economical  living.  In  good  repute, 
however,  he  was  a  wealthy  man.  When  he  first  went  up 
to  Richmond  he  was  a  local  figure  only;  but  after  that 
dramatic  annihilation  of  the  railroad  conspiracy,  wherever 
he  went  he  was  a  celebrity  and  an  observed  personage. 
The  future,  it  seemed,  was  his  with  all  he  could  make 
of  it. 

He  missed  no  opportunity  of  appearing  in  public,  and 
his  clear,  simple  ideas,  his  impassioned  language,  coming 
from  the  depths  of  a  nature  that  had  bled  and  grown  wise 
in  the  bleeding,  and  above  all  the  fearlessness  and  the 
convincing  power  of  his  honest  conscience  —  these  gifts 
won  for  him  the  admiration  and  golden  opinions  of  his 
fellow-men.  He  impressed  them  as  one  devoted  to  a  high 
calling,  and,  judging  from  the  signs,  his  coveted  election 
was  sure. 

The  pleasantest  memory,  perhaps,  of  these  days  was  the 
occasion  when  he  delivered  the  annual  address  before  the 
literary  society  of  Washington  and  Lee  University.  He 
chose  as  his  subject  "  The  Soldier  and  the  Citizen,"  and  he 
made  a  splendid  eulogy  and  temperate  comparison  of  the 
great  American  and  the  great  Confederate,  whose  names 
gave  title  and  honor  to  the  college. 

Some  may  even  remember  to-day  the  comment  which 
the  oration  aroused  in  the  Northern  papers ;  particularly 
that  of  the  irreconcilably  partisan  editor  who  declared  the 
comparison  was  "  a  sacrilege,"  as  if,  forsooth,  Virginia  had 
no  right  to  speak  in  commendation  of  her  own  children. 


SUGGESTIONS   OF   SEVERAL  POSSIBILITIES    327 

But  while  Bourland  was  exercising  his  wings  for  later 
flights  to  fame,  he  was  almost  blind  to  some  of  the  things 
on  this  earth.  He  did  not  observe,  at  any  rate  he  did  not 
duly  estimate,  the  importance  of  a  movement  which,  though 
feeble  at  first,  was  brought  to  a  menacing  head  by  the 
subtle  manoeuvre  of  a  far-seeing  demagogue.  The  agita 
tion  is  known  in  state  history  as  the  Rise  of  the  Read- 
justers,  and  its  satanic  genius  was  Barlowe. 

The  full  history  of  this  movement  is  very  complicated ; 
but  one  will  do  no  harmful  violence  to  the  facts  with  the 
simple  statement  that  Readjustment  was  an  endeavor  to 
force  the  creditors  of  the  state,  those  who  held  the  state 
bonds,  to  accept  a  compromise  wherein,  by  a  reissue,  the 
debt  would  be  reduced  and  the  rate  of  interest,  both  for 
unpaid  arrears  and  future  payments,  would  be  materially 
decreased  —  in  other  words,  it  was  a  forcible  scaling  down 
of  the  state  debt  at  the  expense  of  the  creditors  and  the 
state's  honor. 

At  first  the  proposal  had  no  political  significance ;  but 
when  some  of  the  leading  Bourbons  set  themselves  against 
it,  and  when  office-holders  and  school-teachers,  forced  to 
suffer  a  curtailment  of  income  in  order  that  the  obliga 
tions  might  be  met,  advocated  its  adoption,  then  Barlowe 
saw  his  opportunity,  and  gathering  in  all  the  forces  of 
dissent  and  discontent,  he  formed  an  organization,  a  new 
party,  whose  chief  plank  was  forcible  readjustment,  and 
whose  solitary  dictator  was  himself. 

This  was  the  band  of  allies,  white  and  black,  carpet 
bagger  and  scalawag,  which  the  conservative  Bourbons 
had  now  to  face  and  fight.  Its  success  was  dependent 
upon  two  things :  the  ability  of  Barlowe  to  debauch  the 
public  conscience,  and  to  control  the  negro  vote. 

In  May  of  this  year  Bourland  was  back  at  the  Hall. 
Major  Taicott,  now  attached  by  friendship  and  interest 
to  his  political  fortunes,  was  with  him.  Taicott,  at  first, 
had  paid  assiduous  attention  to  Eleanor,  but  before  long 
he  saw  that  he  was  not  the  favored  suitor.  Vexed  at  the 
thought  that  in  love  as  well  as  in  war  he  had  been  out 
done  by  a  Yankee,  nevertheless,  with  true  Southern  gen- 


328  HENRY   BOURLAND 

tility,  he  kept  his  vexation  to  himself,  and  continued  his 
attentions  with  purely  platonic  devotion. 

Like  Bourland  he  turned  his  energies  to  the  sterner 
attentions  of  politics. 

"  I'm  not  sure,  Colonel,"  said  the  major  one  morning,  as 
they  sat  beside  their  juleps  on  the  veranda,  while  the  dew 
exhaled  a  freshness  into  the  blossom-scented  air,  "  I'm  not 
sure  but  that  we've  got  to  change  our  policy  somewhat. 
There  is  a  certain  element  among  our  constituents  which 
is  getting  restless  under  our  rigid  conservatism.  They  say 
we  are  looking  backward  too  much,  and  standing  still." 

"  You  can't  run  ahead  until  you  get  back  your  health 
and  strength,"  replied  Bourland.  "  We  can't  raise  salaries 
and  make  internal  improvements  while  we've  got  our  debts 
to  pay.  We've  got  to  retrench ;  we've  got  to  wear  cheap 
clothes,  and  live  in  the  old,  ramshackle  houses  until  we 
pay  up  our  arrearages." 

"  There  is  a  shorter  way  to  that,  some  think,"  commented 
Talcott,  taking  a  sip  of  the  odorous  mint  drink. 

"  Oh,  yes !  Cheat  our  creditors  !  break  our  word ! 
repudiate ! " 

"  They  don't  call  it  that ;  they  call  it  readjustment." 

"  Bah,"  exclaimed  Bourland.  "  A  bond  is  a  bond,  and  a 
dollar  is  a  dollar." 

"  Yes,  that's  true  enough ;  but  readjustment  is  coming  to 
be  a  political  question,  and  it  may  swamp  us.  This  nigger 
vote,  in  the  hands  of  a  bad  man,  may  still  be  a  menace  to 
honest  government.  Besides,  there  is  much  muttering 
among  the  uneducated  whites.  '  A  failure  and  a  compro 
mise  is  a  recognized  thing  in  the  business  relations  of  indi 
viduals,'  they  say.  4  Why  shouldn't  it  be  legitimate  for  a 
state?" 

"  I  hope  we  shall  never  get  into  the  sad  plight  of  Missis 
sippi  in  '43,"  Bourland  said  with  earnestness.  "  She  repu 
diated  her  bonds  with  far  more  excuse  than  we  can  have. 
But  what  was  the  result  ?  Disgrace  on  the  fair  name  of  the 
state.  Don't  you  remember  that  Senator  Lamar  refused  a 
European  commission  because,  he  said,  he  came  from  a 
state  that  was  branded  by  repudiation  ?  I  don't  think  Vir- 


SUGGESTIONS   OF   SEVERAL   POSSIBILITIES     329 

ginia  will  ever  follow  her  example.  It  would  almost  destroy 
one  of  my  dearest  ambitions." 

"  We  are  in  great  danger  of  it.  That  man  Barlowe  is 
about  some  of  the  devil's  business,  and  he's  going  to  make 
a  demonstration  that  will  cause  trouble." 

"  Oh  !  he's  discredited  among  the  best  people." 

"  That  all  may  be,  Colonel,"  said  Talcott,  in  his  argu 
ment  forgetting  the  unemptied  glass.  "  But  there  is  one 
thing  you  don't  seem  to  realize  ;  that  is,  that  the  best  people 
haven't  got  the  political  influence  they  had  before  the  war. 
The  best  people  aren't  going  to  run  our  politics  much  longer. 
The  emigrants,  who  know  not  Joseph,  the  scalawags,  the 
niggers,  with  their  lax  ideas  of  honor  and  honesty,  are  com 
ing  more  and  more  into  power.  It  will  take  only  a  crafty, 
conscienceless  leader  like  Barlowe  to  unify  them  and  make 
them  formidable.  It  may  jeopardize  your  future.  You 
don't  seem  aware  of  the  danger.  You  must  be  more  mod 
ern.  You  must  give  up  some  of  this  stiff-backed  reverence 
of  the  past  and  worship  of  traditions.  You  must  accept 
the  fact  that  Virginia's  future  prosperity  is  not  altogether 
in  agriculture." 

"I  am  beginning  to  see  that,"  replied  Bouiiand,  sadly. 
"  And  that  thought  has  made  me  more  eager  to  get  into 
the  Senate.  That  ambition  has  been  my  strongest  incen 
tive,  my  dream,  day  and  night,  during  these  last  years.  I 
have  a  concern,  as  the  Quakers  say.  I  want  to  get  into  a 
position  whose  dignity  and  prominence  will  command  the 
attention  of  the  whole  country.  Down  here  I  am  only  a 
beaten  rebel.  I  should  like  to  tell  the  Yankees  some  day 
things  which  they  don't  know,  or  won't  know,  about  the 
South.  For  until  they  listen  to  them,  the  wounds  of  the 
nation  will  never  be  healed.  I  understand  a  great  deal 
about  both  sides  of  Mason  and  Dixon's  line."  His  voice 
softened  into  the  pathos  of  beautiful  memories.  "  My 
dear,  dead  wife,  who  was  a  Yankee  girl,  if  there  ever  was 
one,  opened  my  eyes  to  many  facts,  and  I  learned  from  her 
because  she  was  glad  to  learn  from  me.  We  differed,  but 
we  never  had  any  ill  feelings  on  that  score.  We  understood 
each  other." 


330  HENEY   BOURLAND 

Talcott  was  deeply  impressed  by  the  words  of  his  friend. 
He  had  never  before  suspected  the  motives  which  this 
confession  had  revealed.  He  found  nothing  apt  to  say, 
and  in  his  embarrassment  he  turned  again  to  the  glass 
and  mint. 

A  small  colored  boy,  astride  of  a  lean  horse,  rode  through 
the  gate  and  delivered  two  letters. 

"  Bofe  foh  Mis'  Eleanor,"  he  said. 

"You're  getting  along  famously  with  your  reading, 
Piim,"  said  Talcott. 

"Ya-as,  s'r.  I'se  a-gwine  to  school  to  Mis'  Burnby's 
nowadays,"  replied  the  lad. 

Later,  as  they  went  in  to  dinner,  Eleanor  called  her 
brother  aside  and  said,  "  I've  got  a  letter  from  Elsie." 

"  That's  nothing  strange.     They  come  frequently." 

"  But  the  contents  are.  She  says  the  time  has  come 
when  she  must  decide  whether  or  not  she  will  take  the 
last  vows,  and  become  a  nun  for  life.  She  can't  make  up 
her  mind.  It  would  be  best,  she  hints,  if  she  could  test 
herself  by  coming  out  into  the  world,  'getting  one  more 
breath  of  air,'  as  she  puts  it,  and  seeing  if  she  could  re 
nounce  the  human  race  altogether.  4  You  folks  in  God's 
sunlight  may  be  so  wicked,'  she  writes, '  that  I  may  be  glad 
to  get  back  to  my  cell.' ' 

"  Which  means,"  said  Bourland,  "  that  if  you  invite  her 
to  spend  the  summer  here,  she  would  accept  the  invita 
tion." 

"  Yes,  that's  what  I  think.     What  do  you  say  V  " 

"Tell  her  to  come  by  all  means.  God  knows  this  is 
probably  the  last  summer  we  shall  be  here  ourselves. 
Parker's  got  my  mortgage  at  last,  and  when  it  falls  due,  I 
won't  have  the  money,  and  we'll  have  to  leave.  Tell  her 
to  come  if  she  wants  to,  and  we'll  try  to  make  it  pleasant 
for  her." 

Eleanor  hesitated  and  considered  for  several  days.  "  Why 
not?"  she  asked  herself;  "  Henry  is  wedded  to  his  political 
plans."  So  she  wrote  to  Elsie,  inviting  her  to  spend  the 
summer  at  the  Hall. 


CHAPTER   XLII 

A   SCHOOL  OF   POLITICS    AND   ITS  MASTER 

ABOUT  the  middle  of  May  Barlowe  decided  that  the  time 
was  ripe  for  a  demonstration,  and  he  ordered  his  political 
underlings  to  meet  him  in  conference  at  Lynchburg. 

Just  as  Bourland  had  said,  he  had  lost  caste  among  the 
"  best  people  "  of  the  state.  He  determined  upon  revenge, 
and  he  found  the  means  in  the  agitation  about  scaling  down 
the  debt.  Secretly,  cautiously,  subtly  he  fomented  dis 
content  until  it  became  formidable.  During  the  last  two 
years,  with  a  Napoleonic  reach  and  grasp  of  details  Barlowe 
had  drawn  to  his  magnetic  personality  the  leaders  of  the 
Radical  party  and  many  of  the  soreheads  among  the  Con 
servatives.  His  hue  and  cry  of  disaffection  and  promise  of 
relief  had  consolidated  an  incongruous  lot  of  Mouldies, 
Shadows,  Warts,  Peebles,  and  Bullcalves  into  a  political 
army :  negroes  with  plastic  opinions,  illiterate  whites  whose 
feudal  allegiance  to  the  aristocrats  was  dissolving ;  disap 
pointed  politicians,  who  are  but  human,  particularly  when 
out  of  a  job.  In  addition  to  these  Barlowe  had  a  personal 
following  among  some  of  the  old  soldiers,  who  worshipped 
him  justly  as  a  brave  and  distinguished  leader,  and  among 
the  public  school-teachers  whose  salaries  had  been  limited 
by  the  obligations  of  the  debt  paying.  These  latter  classes 
gave  tone  and  intelligence  to  the  movement. 

Clayton  arrived  in  Lynchburg  before  the  others.  He 
had  clung  to  Barlowe  as  a  man  overboard  clings  to  a  spar ; 
and  Barlowe,  who  had  many  kindly  traits  in  his  nature, 
had  befriended  him,  and  had  utilized  him  as  an  agent  in 
his  secret  service.  Clayton  was  one  of  these  kind-hearted 
irresolutes.  He  made  friends  easily,  and  he  possessed 

331 


332  HENRY   BOURLAND 

real  ability,  which  unfortunately  was  becoming  more  and 
more  impaired  by  drink. 

"  See  here,  Clayton,"  said  Barlowe,  after  greeting  him, 
"  we've  got  great  prospects  ahead  of  us.  Why  don't  you 
brace  up  ?  I'll  see  you  get  a  good  chance." 

"  You  can't  make  a  broken  pot  hold  water,"  he  replied 
dejectedly. 

"  It  doesn't  seem  to  have  much  trouble  in  holding 
whiskey,"  retorted  the  boss,  pleased  with  his  repartee. 
"What  have  you  got  to  say  to  that?" 

"  Let's  have  a  drink." 

"No,  sir!  Not  a  drop.  We've  got  business  on  hand, 
and  we've  got  to  have  clear  heads.  Do  you  hear  ?  " 

"  Have  we  got  to  sign  the  pledge  ?  " 

"That  wouldn't  do  you  any  good.  But  I'll  tell  you 
what  would.  Get  rid  of  that  wife  of  yours ;  you  can  do 
it.  She  has  deserted  you.  I  believe  she  is  the  cause  of 
all  your  trouble.  You'd  be  better  off,  if  she  were  out  of 
your  mind." 

Clayton  shook  his  head  in  the  negative.  "  That  would 
please  her  too  much.  Within  a  week:  after  I  got  a  divorce, 
if  I  could  get  one,  which  I  doubt,  she'd  be  out  of  that  con 
vent,  and  her  name  would  soon  be  Mrs.  Bourland.  I  know 
her,  General.  Why,  she  had  the  audacity,  three  weeks 
after  I  married  her,  to  put  that  fellow's  picture  in  her 
room.  She  has  kissed  it  right  before  my  eyes.  I  believe 
she  used  to  say  her  prayers  to  it." 

"  He  doesn't  care  for  her.  He's  too  busy  with  his  own 
political  affairs,"  said  Barlowe.  "  He'd  avoid  any  such 
scandal." 

"  He's  only  a  man,  don't  mistake  that,  General ;  and  my 
wife,  damn  her,  is  the  trickiest  and  most  beautiful  woman  in 
Virginia.  In  a  convent !  Bah  !  The  devil  knows  why." 

"  Why  don't  you  shoot  her  —  or  him  —  or  yourself  ?  " 
said  Barlowe,  jokingly. 

"  I  have  thought  of  it,  often,"  he  said  gloomily.  "  If  I 
blew  out  my  own  brains  —  that  would  please  them  better 
than  a  divorce.  If  I  did  the  other,  well,  I  haven't  got 
any  proof  that  they've  done  anything  wrong,  and  I've 


A   SCHOOL   OF  POLITICS   AND   ITS   MASTER     333 

got  a  strong  prejudice  against  a  tight  collar."     Then  he 
added,  with  a  grim  smile  :  — 

"  '  Where  is  your  music,  Sheriff  Dunne  ? ' 
Said  Willy  at  the  Gate. 

*  I  often  have  danced  upon  the  green, 

With  Molly,  Meg,  and  Kate.' 

*  I  do  not  see  them,  Sheriff  Dunne,' 

Said  Willy  at  the  Stair. 

*  Nay,  nay,  my  boy,  they  have  no  lust 

To  dance  upon  the  air  ! ' " 

In  the  afternoon,  when  the  leaders  assembled  for  the 
conference,  Clayton  came  in  so  intoxicated  that  they  had 
to  lead  him  over  to  the  lounge. 

There  were  in  all  about  fifteen  men,  including  Parker, 
who,  in  that  gathering,  could  pass  for  a  man. 

"  I  have  called  you  together,"  said  Barlowe,  "  in  order 
that  we  might  have  a  chance  to  get  acquainted  with  each 
other.  We  must  have  harmony  from  the  start.  Then, 
too,  we  must  adopt  a  policy  agreeable  to  all  of  us,  and  we 
must  have  concerted  action.  It  is  time  for  a  big  demon 
stration.  I  think  Schumann  Hall  in  Richmond  would 
be  the  best  place.  After  that  we  must  begin  a  vigorous 
campaign.  This  fight  is  to  be  one  of  intelligence  and 
education.  But  before  I  go  on  to  speak  further,  I  want 
to  hear  reports  from  you  of  the  conditions  in  the  various 
districts." 

He  called  upon  each  of  them  in  turn,  and  he  noted  the 
details  in  his  memorandum  book.  After  they  had  all 
spoken,  he  said :  — 

"  Some  of  you  are  more  successful  than  others,  according 
to  my  study  of  the  figures,  in  getting  good,  safe  majorities. 
You  had  better  have  some  talks  in  private  with  each  other, 
and  exchange  ideas.  Mr.  Skilton,  you  have  had  very 
remarkable  results  in  your  county.  I  wish  you  would 
explain,  at  your  leisure,  that  invention  of  yours  with  the 
tissue  ballots.  I  think  I  understand  it  pretty  well,  but  I 
don't  want  to  steal  your  thunder.  I  don't  want  to  interfere 
with  any  of  you ;  each  man  is  to  manage  his  own  district." 

They  indulged  in  some  desultory  discussion  for  an  hour, 


334  HENKY   BOURLAND 

in  which  Barlowe  made  it  a  point  to  bring  every  man  out 
into  prominence  for  some  merit.  He  assumed  no  dictatorial 
attitude,  yet  he  was  full  master  of  the  ring. 

"  I  have  given  a  great  deal  of  attention  to  the  study  of 
this  question,"  he  said,  resuming  the  position  of  school 
master,  "and  I  want  to  outline  some  of  the  arguments 
which  we  shall  use  in  the  campaign.  In  the  first  place, 
insist  on  the  word  4  readjustment,'  and  make  it  plain  that 
4  repudiation '  is  simply  a  term  of  slander  used  by  our 
enemies.  Bring  out  the  point  that  what  we  propose  is  a 
readjustment  necessitated  by  the  splitting  of  the  state,  in 
war  times,  into  Virginia  and  West  Virginia.  Congress  did 
that,  and  we  are  in  no  way  responsible ;  we  couldn't  help 
ourselves." 

"  They  can't  refute  that  argument,"  put  in  one  man. 

"  Not  without  more  figuring  than  the  average  voter 
can  do,  anyway,"  replied  the  chairman.  "  Don't  forget  to 
emphasize  that  the  public  school-teachers  are  with  us,  and 
will  vote  solidly  for  our  candidates." 

He  referred  to  some  notes. 

44  Here  is  another  very  good  point.  Let  me  read  it  to 
you.  The  purchasing  power  of  money  has  increased  so 
that  the  state  creditors  are  getting  actually  more  than, 
at  the  time,  the  original  contract  contemplated.  To  scale 
down  the  debt  and  the  rate  of  interest  does  not  deprive 
them  of  material  values.  Refer  to  the  case  of  Patrick 
Henry  and  the  parsons,  who  got  their  salaries  in  tobacco. 
It's  a  splendid  analogy." 

"Has  the  purchasing  power  of  money  increased  enough 
to  square  the  difference  ?  "  asked  another  man. 

44  Of  course  it  has,  —  in  some  things,"  answered  Barlowe, 
testily.  44  What  a  question  ! " 

44  But  we'll  have  to  answer  it,"  persisted  the  man. 

44  Well,  then,  get  statistics.  You  can  prove  anything  by 
statistics.  Talk  of  wheat  and  corn  to  the  farmers,  talk 
bread  and  meat  to  the  laborers,  and  keep  quiet  about  the 
things  that  go  against  you. 

44 1  shall  have  printed  lists  of  delinquent  taxpayers,"  he 
went  on,  44  showing  the  utter  poverty  of  the  masses  and 


A   SCHOOL   OF  POLITICS   AND   ITS   MASTER    335 

the  inability  to  run  things  as  the  party  in  power  has  run 
them.  It's  like  wringing  blood  out  of  a  stone." 

He  asked  the  various  men  to  send  him,  as  soon  as 
possible,  the  statistics  of  the  county  tax  delinquencies, 
saying  that  he  would  appoint  a  committee  to  collate  the 
results. 

"  There  is  another  argument  which  will  be  effective  to 
a  good  many,  —  the  fact  that  our  state  bonds  are  held 
largely  by  Yankees  and  Europeans,  who  gamble  in  the 
stock  markets  on  our  poverty." 

"  What  are  we  going  to  do  about  the  niggers  ?  They 
haven't  got  any  property  to  speak  of,  and  the  tax  col 
lector  doesn't  squeeze  them  very  hard,"  asked  a  man  from 
a  corner. 

"I  don't  know  so  much  about  the  niggers,"  exclaimed 
Barlowe,  stretching  backward  in  his  chair.  "  We'll  have 
to  call  on  Parker.  He  is  our  specialist  in  that  line.  What 
do  you  say,  Parker?" 

"  It  isn't  an  easy  problem,"  began  Parker.  "  A  good 
many  niggers  will  want  to  vote  under  the  name  of  their 
own  party;  others  will  join  yours  directly.  You  must 
give  them  a  bait ;  it  needn't  be  much.  Advocate  some 
thing  they  want  —  say  the  abolition  of  the  poll  tax  and 
the  discontinuance  of  the  chain  gang.  A  cheap  method 
of  attracting  them  would  be  to  give  their  speakers  as  many 
opportunities  as  possible  to  talk  on  the  same  platform  with 
white  men.  They  like  that  sort  of  a  thing  next  to  a  water 
melon  patch.  Another  way,  and  a  very  effective  one,  is 
to  control  the  nigger  preachers.  Once  get  them  on  your 
side,  and  they  will  pull  the  congregations  over.  A  little 
judicious  liberality  here  will  go  a  great  ways.  The  Radi 
cal  party  may  have  to  make  a  show  of  nominal  existence. 
We  shall  have  to  work  it  so  that  our  candidates  can  be 
ratified  by  them.  It  is  necessary,  therefore,  for  us  to  make 
our  nominations  early.  We  shall  have  to  have  some  cam 
paign  funds  for  the  nigger  element." 

"  Yes,  don't  forget  that,"  Barlowe  brought  out  with 
emphasis.  "  Talking  and  argument  go  some  of  the  ways, 
but  we  can't  get  along  without  money.  We've  got  to 


336  HENRY   BOUBLAND 

have  an  unusual  amount  of  torchlight  parades  and  shout 
ing.  I  shall  appoint  a  finance  committee  before  you  leave." 

A  recess  was  declared  till  the  evening,  and  during  the 
interim  another  committee  drafted  a  formal  platform, 
which  was  fully  criticised  and  amended  before  the  confer 
ence  adjourned. 

"  This  platform  will  be  made  public  at  the  meeting  in 
Schumann  Hall,"  remarked  Barlowe,  after  all  the  changes 
had  been  made.  "  We  can't  do  anything  more  to-night. 
Go  back  to  your  districts  and  start  the  work." 

Parker,  before  he  went  away,  had  a  confidential  talk  with 
the  leader. 

"  I'm  going  to  be  of  a  great  deal  of  service  to  you,"  said 
he,  "and  I  want  you  to  keep  your  promises  to  me." 

"  You  can  be  sure  you  shall  get  your  share." 

"  I'm  not  after  money,  for  I'm  in  good  trim  that  way. 
But  I  want  to  go  to  Congress,  and  I  want  you  to  defeat 
the  aspirations  of  that  beggar  down  in  Lacamac." 

"  What  is  the  cause  of  your  eternal  grudge  against  that 
fellow  ?  He  seems  to  be  a  pretty  decent  sort  of  man,  and 
just  now  his  stock  is  running  high.  You  must  have  some 
Indian  blood  in  you.  You  never  let  up  on  him." 

The  veins  in  Parker's  forehead  swelled  and  darkened 
with  the  intensity  of  his  hatred.  He  had  brooded  for 
years  on  his  wrongs,  as  he  conceived  them,  and  the  recol 
lection  of  the  old  insult,  and  the  consciousness  that  he 
had  never  got  his  full  revenge,  that  Bourland  had  beaten 
him  always,  and  was  to-day  one  of  the  foremost  men  in 
the  state,  while  he  was  still  a  "nigger  man,"  politically 
and  socially,  —  all  these  thoughts  inspired  him  with  a 
malevolence  that  was  unappeasable.  No  vitriol,  refined  to 
chemical  purity,  ever  possessed  such  a  latent  rancor  for 
human  flesh  as  this  man's  unsatisfied  desire  of  vengeance. 

"I  went  to  see  him  once,  General,"  confessed  Parker. 
"  You  may  as  well  know  about  it.  I  had  done  him  several 
favors,  and  I  wanted  a  small  favor  in  return.  But  he  put 
me  out  of  his  house,  as  if  I  were  a  lousy  cur.  I  went  —  of 
course  I  went.  It  was  his  house.  But  may  I  burn  in 
hell  fire  if  I  don't  go  back  there  some  day,  when  it  will 


A   SCHOOL   OF   POLITICS   AND   ITS   MASTER     337 

be  all  mine,  and  drive  that  infernal  snob  out  with  his  own 
nigger  whip." 

"  Oh,  pshaw !  "  answered  Barlowe,  with  a  smile.  "  What 
is  the  use  of  making  such  a  fuss  about  a  little  thing  like 
that?  He  did  me  a  much  worse  turn.  He  cost  me  twenty 
thousand  a  year,  not  to  speak  of  other  things.  He  gave 
me  a  clean  punch  in  the  belly  that  took  all  the  wind  out 
of  me.  Yet  I  didn't  lose  any  sleep  over  it.  I  don't  bear 
him  such  a  great  grudge  either,  for  he  did  the  thing  like 
an  artist.  If  he  gets  in  my  way  now,  though,  I  am  going 
to  knock  him  groggy.  You  go  get  first  blood  out  of  him 
in  Lacamac.  If  he  beats  you  there  again,  come  down  to 
Richmond,  and  I'll  take  a  hand." 

"  You  renew  your  promise,  then,  that  he  will  never  go 
to  the  Senate  ?  That  will  make  him  the  sickest,  sourest, 
maddest  man  in  these  parts." 

Barlowe  smiled  and  chuckled,  looking  at  Parker  search- 
ingly. 

"I  believe  you  can  keep  a  secret,"  said  he.  "I  believe 
I  can  trust  you.  The  fact  is,  I'm  going  to  the  Senate 
myself.  In  fact,  between  you  and  me,  that  is  why  this 
Readjustment  party  is  so  necessary  to  the  poor,  poverty- 
stricken  people  of  Virginia.  Does  that  answer  your 
question  ?  " 

Parker  went  away  satisfied. 


CHAPTER   XLIII 

IN  THE   CONFESSIONAL 

OF  all  our  American  trees,  one  of  the  most  imposing  is 
the  tulip.  Tall,  straight,  sturdy,  branching  into  a  green 
density  of  foliage,  these  trees  are  most  glorious  when  the 
van  of  summer  comes  from  the  tropics  on  its  annual  inva 
sion.  Then  the  tulip  blossoms  expand  into  innumerable 
golden  cups,  thrust  out  as  if  by  many  begging  hands,  to 
catch  the  bounty  of  the  sunlight  and  the  cooling  showers. 

It  was  just  about  this  time  —  in  the  drowsy  promise  of 
summer  —  that  Elsie  came  back  to  the  Hall. 

"I've  brought  a  trunk  with  me,"  she  said  gayly,  as 
Henry  and  Eleanor  greeted  her  at  the  station. 

"Of  course,"  replied  Bourland,  and  then  he  began  to 
rally  her  about  her  truancy  from  the  cloister. 

She  held  up  a  pleading  hand,  and  uttered  a  pleading 
"Don't." 

The  ride  up  to  the  Ledge  made  her  eyes  sparkle.  She 
breathed  heavily,  as  if  reviving  from  a  swoon.  Exclama 
tion  after  exclamation  of  delight  broke  from  her  lips  at 
the  sight  of  the  familiar  objects. 

"What  have  you  escaped  from?"  inquired  Eleanor, 
—  "the  Black  Hole  of  Calcutta?" 

"It's  like  coming  back  to  life  again,"  she  replied. 

Arrived  at  the  Hall,  she  desired  to  see  everything  at 
once.  Little  was  changed,  from  the  bronze  crusader, 
whose  tireless  arm  held  the  lamp  on  the  centre  table,  to 
Sarah,  puttering  a  little  less  energetically,  perhaps,  in  the 
kitchen.  Sarah  she  wanted  to  embrace. 

"Hul  up,  Miss  Elsie,"  cried  the  old  black  cook,  "doan' 
yuh  tech  me.  I'se  all  greasy  wif  a-fryin'  ob  dese  yere 
fritters  agains'  yuh  comin'.  I  specks  yuh  done  los'  yuh 
tas'e  foh  Sairy's  cawn  slappahs." 

338 


IN   THE   CONFESSIONAL  339 

At  the  supper  table  she  was  brimming  over  with  the 
old-time  vivacity.  Bourland  watched  her  and  became 
thoughtful. 

When  he  saw  her  last  she  was  serious,  solemn,  remorse 
ful.  Evidently  this  isolation  in  a  religious  atmosphere 
had  forced  a  new  issue  in  her  spiritual  development,  and 
by  some  process  of  spiritual  purging  had  set  her  free  from 
the  past.  At  any  rate  she  was  buoyant  now. 

There  was  some  change  in  her  outward  appearance. 
Her  face  was  not  so  full,  and  a  delicate  whiteness  had 
invaded  the  former  flush  of  her  cheeks.  There  were 
shadows  about  her  eyes  and  a  subdued  light,  like  that  of 
a  candle  at  noonday.  As  Bourland  compared  her  now 
with  his  last  memory,  he  felt  that  she  had  undergone  some 
struggle,  that  the  vigor  of  the  senses  had  been  subdued 
by  the  spirit  into  an  inward  serenity. 

Yet  she  was  none  the  less  appealing  to  one's  joy  in  the 
beautiful.  There  she  sat,  her  loose  sleeve  revealing  her 
blue-veined  arm,  daintily  picking  up  red  strawberries 
with  her  fingers  and  bearing  them  to  the  kiss  of  her 
enticing  lips.  There  she  was,  carelessly  jocose  in  the 
manner  of  the  days  of  her  girlhood,  and  the  air  that 
was  wafted  around  her  was  bright  with  the  freshness  of 
surviving  youth. 

The  brother  and  sister  perplexed  her  with  no  questions. 
They  let  her  enjoy  herself,  and  for  a  week  she  idled  and 
read  and  prattled  at  her  delicious  ease.  The  sunlight, 
the  open  air,  some  exercise  out  of  doors,  brought  back  the 
rose  glow  to  her  cheeks  and  restored  to  the  full  the 
manifest  joy  of  living. 

At  last  she  voluntarily  broke  her  reserve. 

"I  suppose  you  are  wondering  what  I  have  been  doing. 
You  must  have  been  surprised  when  I  went  off  into  a  con 
vent.  It  has  made  another  woman  of  me ;  it  gave  me  a 
new  insight  into  life.  But  I  think  the  best  has  already 
been  done.  It  began  to  grate  on  me  after  a  time.  I  woke 
up  one  day  at  the  thought  of  staying  there  for  life. 
It  was  like  waking  up  in  a  coffin  after  being  buried 
alive." 


340  HENRY   BOUELAND 

"  I  always  think  of  such  a  life  as  beautiful  and  full  of 
peace,"  said  Eleanor. 

"  So  it  is  to  some  natures.  I  was  very  happy  at  first, 
intensely  happy ;  and  you  know  I  have  to  be  intense  to  be 
satisfied.  I  became  a  real  zealot,  like  Saint  Teresa.  I 
would  read  about  the  saints  and  martyrs,  and  I  would 
kneel  down  on  the  stone  floors  and  pray  until  I  was  too 
weak,  sometimes,  to  get  up.  I  used  to  fast  until  I  got 
dizzy;  sometimes,  then,  I  saw  visions  and  felt  raptures. 
It  was  sublime.  It  made  one  so  strong;  but  when  they 
passed  away,  they  left  me  with  fearful  headaches." 

"That  isn't  the  chief  occupation  of  nuns  nowadays,  is 
it?"  asked  Bourland,  sarcastically.  There  was  too  much 
of  the  cavalier  and  the  epicure  in  him  to  relish  any  such 
spiritual  intoxication. 

"Oh!  no,  indeed.  Most  of  them  are  busy  with  good 
works.  I  was  only  passing  through  the  stage  of  the  neo 
phyte.  It  soon  wore  off,  and  then  I  couldn't  get  the 
ecstasies  even  when  I  wanted  to.  I  soon  had  to  settle 
down  to  routine  and  a  matter-of-fact  life.  That  was  when 
I  began  to  grow  restive." 

"  I  have  often  wondered  how  a  lot  of  women  get  along 
when  they  are  boxed  up  in  one  house.  They  are  all 
angels,  I  suppose,"  remarked  Bourland,  still  pursuing  his 
vein  of  sarcasm. 

"Well,  I  guess  not,"  she  answered  with  vigor.  "They 
are  women  just  the  same.  Their  vows  and  the  rules  of 
the  order  hold  them  in  check  somewhat,  but  they  are  still 
women." 

"When  you  see  them  on  the  street,  with  their  black 
gowns  and  immaculate  white  hoods,  they  look  angelic," 
said  Eleanor. 

"  That  is  because  they  have,  a  good  many  of  them,  no 
striking  personality.  They  are  all  whipped  by  rule  and 
discipline  into  a  type,  and  they  lose  themselves."  Then 
Elsie's  voice  acquired  her  wonted  strength  as  she  con 
tinued,  "  Oh,  it  crazes  me  to  think  that  some  day  I  shall 
be  hammered  into  a  machine,  a  human  machine  of  just 
so  many  motions  and  no  more." 


IN  THE  CONFESSIONAL  341 

Shortly  afterward  she  left  them  on  the  veranda  and 
went  into  the  parlor  and  played  upon  the  piano  some  of 
the  ephemeral  songs  and  catches  popular  a  decade  before. 

Half  an  hour  later,  when  Bourland  was  sitting  alone, 
plotting  out  some  speeches,  she  came  out  again. 

"Henry,  come  take  me  for  a  walk.  I've  got  one  of  my 
fits  on  me  to-night.  I  want  company." 

He  led  her,  unthinkingly,  across  the  lawn  to  the  stone 
wall  where  they  had  parted  several  years  ago. 

The  pale  stars  hung  above,  a  vast  stretch  of  them,  meet 
ing  the  gloom  of  the  hills.  The  lights  of  Bray  ton  twinkled 
in  the  valley,  like  the  lamps  of  an  illuminated  garden. 
The  air  was  full  of  the  languor  of  night. 

Her  arms  were  propped  upon  the  stone,  and  her  chin 
rested  in  her  hands.  She  looked  like  one  alone  on  the 
infinite  expanses  of  the  sea.  Her  heart  was  audible. 

At  last  she  glanced  up,  smiling  sorrowfully. 

"You  can't  understand  what  a  relief  it  is  to  have  a 
confessor  and  to  go  to  confession."  She  waited  a  few 
moments,  then  added  reluctantly,  "I  have  something  on 
my  mind  to-night." 

"Cannot  I  play  father  confessor?"  he  asked  tenderly. 
"Tell  me  anything  you  wish.  I  shall  hold  it  sacred." 

"  I  wish  you  could  know  and  believe  without  my  telling 
you." 

She  hesitated  in  the  silence  of  inward  debate.  At  last 
she  looked  up  again  with  searching,  impressive  glances. 

"  You  have  heard  unpleasant  things  about  me  that  came 
over  the  ocean,  haven't  you?" 

"Yes." 

"Did  you  ever  believe  them?" 

He  could  not  equivocate  before  the  inquiry  of  those 
eager  eyes.  He  hesitated,  and  the  delay  became  an 
unspoken  affirmative. 

Her  face  paled;  he  could  notice  that  even  in  the  dim 
light  of  the  stars.  A  mist  of  checked  tears  obscured  the 
keenness  of  her  glances. 

"I  don't  blame  you,"  she  said. 

He  was  about  to  say  something,  but  she  stopped  him. 


342  HENRY   BOTTRLAND 

"  Don't  speak.  I  want  you  to  listen  to  me."  Her  mind 
went  searching  for  the  apt  words. 

"  You  have  been  very  kind,  very  helpful  to  me  since 
our  meeting  after  the  long  separation.  A  woman  knows 
something  by  her  intuition ;  she  learns  things  that  are 
behind  words  and  deeds  —  the  things  people  think  they 
keep  all  to  themselves.  I  know  this,  Henry;  you  pity 
me;  yes,  you  even  like  to  be  with  me;  but  you  don't  fully 
respect  me." 

She  put  her  hand  to  his  lips  to  check  his  polite  denial, 
and  she  succeeded. 

"I  don't  find  fault,  Henry.  It  is  only  natural.  I  have 
done  some  foolish  things.  You  believe  them,  perhaps, 
worse  than  they  were.  You  find  a  certain  pleasure  in  my 
company,  I  know;  and  yet,  when  we  are  near  each  other, 
I  can  feel  you  pushing  me  away  —  if  not  that,  at  least 
holding  me  off." 

"It  is  not  true,"  he  cried  out. 

"  Hush,  it  is  true.  I  took  the  knowledge  of  that  with 
me  into  the  convent.  It  plagued  me,  maddened  me,  at 
times.  I  felt  I  must  see  you  again,  and  win  from  you  a 
different  feeling.  I  couldn't  live  happy,  I  couldn't  die 
happy,  without  it."  She  stopped  again,  looking  down 
ward.  "I'm  a  puzzle  to  you,  am  I  not?" 

He  admitted  that  he  did  not  understand  her  fully. 

"  I  know.  You  are  not  sure  whether,  at  heart,  I  am 
good  or  bad." 

"You  are  a  hundred  times  better  than  I." 

"No,  I  haven't  your  strength.  You  have  got  a  strong 
hold  on  something,  and  you  can  stand  firm.  I  have  no 
anchor.  I  am  controlled  by  the  forces  around  me.  I'm 
not  bad;  I'm  only  weak  and  without  any  aim.  Now  let 
me  tell  you  something." 

"Tell  me  nothing,"  he  exclaimed  with  fierceness  of 
emphasis.  "I  shall  believe  nothing  they  say  against 
you." 

"You  must  listen.  I  can't  defend  myself  against  all 
the  charges.  I  don't  know  what  many  of  them  are.  But 
I  want  to  take  one,  the  worst  I  can  think  of,  and  I  want 


IN   THE   CONFESSIONAL  343 

to  tell  it  to  you  just  as  God  saw  it.  You  have  heard 
about  a  scandal  in  Italy,  haven't  you?" 

Yes,  he  had  heard  it.  But  it  was  very  vague  in  his 
mind. 

"  You  doubtless  heard  my  name  coupled  with  that  of  an 
Englishman,  Lord  Churton.  He  was  the  son  of  the 
Duchess  of  Carisbrooke,  the  lady  with  whom  I  travelled 
as  companion.  Lord  Churton,  who  was  but  two  years 
younger  than  I,  paid  me  a  great  deal  of  attention.  He 
took  me  places  when  I  wanted  to  go,  where  I  couldn't  go 
without  him,  and  places  where  I  should  not  have  gone. 
But  I  was  reckless  in  those  days,  and  he  helped  me  to 
forget.  The  women  in  the  party  began  to  talk,  but  I  paid 
no  attention  to  them.  I  was  having  a  glorious  experi 
ence  —  distractions  day  and  night.  Finally  Lord  Churton 
became  presumptuous,  and  not  heeding  my  rebukes,  he 
became  bold.  I  was  under  great  obligations  to  him,  so  I 
repressed  him  as  gently  as  I  could.  But  he  was  a  small- 
souled  creature,  and  when  he  persisted,  and  I  had  to  speak 
plainly,  he  became  furious,  and  said  I  had  tricked  him. 
Then  I  refused  to  have  anything  to  do  with  him.  That 
caused  talk  again,  and,  of  course,  made  him  ridiculous. 
I  suppose  I  ought  to  have  left  at  once.  But  I  didn't.  I 
was  alone  in  a  strange  country.  I  didn't  suspect  his  real 
meanness,  and  I  thought  the  difficulty  would  soon  smooth 
over.  In  fact,  it  did  seem  to.  But  all  the  time  he  was 
plotting  to  make  me  leave.  He  succeeded  finally,  and 
this  is  the  truth  about  that  scandal." 

She  paused,  like  a  traveller,  to  gather  strength  for  the 
rough  strip  of  a  journey. 

"  We  were  at  Capri,  staying  on  the  island  for  two 
weeks.  You  know  about  the  famous  Blue  Grotto  there: 
how  the  cavern  hangs  like  a  huge,  inverted  bowl  that  just 
dips,  and  no  more,  below  the  surface  of  the  water.  The 
light  comes  in  from  beneath,  and  illumines  the  interior 
with  the  most  beautiful  tint  of  azure  in  the  world.  There 
is  only  one  entrance,  a  small  opening  on  the  water  side, 
and  sometimes  the  men  go  up  to  it  in  a  small  boat,  jump 
overboard,  and  swim  in.  It  is  like  a  sudden  change  from 


344  HEXRY   BOURLAND 

a  world  of  beautiful  reality  to  a  world  of  mystery  and  awe. 
Outside  there  is  the  shining,  cloudless  sky,  the  glorious 
sunlight  of  Italy,  the  sweep  of  the  sea,  on  some  days  an 
unbroken  plain  of  sapphire ;  and  beyond,  the  panorama  of 
the  bay  of  Naples,  Ischia,  Sorrento,  and  the  long,  white 
line  of  the  city,  with  smoking  Vesuvius  above  it,  yellow 
in  the  sun,  like  a  mountain  of  solid  gold.  Then  you 
plunge  and  enter,  with  a  delicious  chill,  into  the  opening, 
swimming  into  the  lonely  heart  of  the  cavern,  a  basin  of 
liquid  amethyst  which,  at  the  touch,  splashes  into  foarn, 
and  every  splash  echoes  with  low,  hollow  music.  It 
makes  one  think  of 

" '  The  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land, 
The  consecration  and  the  poet's  dream.' " 

She  stopped  again,  and  Bourland  took  the  moment  to 
exclaim,  "  And  so,  like  a  fearless  American  girl,  like  the 
child  of  nature  that  you  have  always  been,  when  somebody 
dared  you,  you  swam  in.  It's  a  little  unusual,  but  I 
don't  see  any  chance  for  a  scandal  yet." 

"Wait,"  she  said.  "Yes,  when  I  heard  the  men  talk 
about  it,  I  was  wild  to  do  it  myself.  So  one  morning 
before  daybreak,  while  the  others  slept,  I  got  a  boat  and 
rowed  to  the  grotto.  Oh !  I  shall  never  forget  that  moment. 
It  made  me  a  pantheist;  divinity  seemed  to  lurk  and  brood 
everywhere.  The  white  morning  stars ;  the  distant  city 
asleep ;  one  long,  gray  line  watched  by  the  red  glow  from 
the  crater  of  Vesuvius ;  the  flush  of  the  coming  dawn  upon 
the  smooth  sea;  and  everywhere  silence  and  awe  and  the 
sense  of  all  the  forces  of  nature  at  worship.  It  made  me 
afraid.  I  wanted  to  turn  back.  But  I  didn't.  I  jumped 
overboard  and  swam  in." 

"You  should  have  been  born  a  mermaid, "  he  exclaimed. 
He  saw  her  like  the  Venus  Anadyomine  in  the  ancient 
myth,  rising  above  the  water  in  the  splendor  of  innocent 
voluptuousness. 

She  had  related  this  latter  part  in  a  kind  of  ecstasy 
that  thrilled  him  as  nothing  fully  of  this  earth  can  thrill. 
He  leaned  against  the  wall  and  clutched  tightly  at  the 


IN   THE   CONFESSIONAL  345 

stones.  The  sense  of  her  beauty  had  never  before  come 
over  him  with  such  mastering  attraction  as  now,  under  the 
spell  of  that  picture.  To  relieve  the  tension,  he  repeated 
his  remark,  "You  should  have  been  born  a  mermaid." 

"Oh!  no,  indeed,"  she  replied.  "I  like  to  take  hedges 
on  horseback  too  much  for  that." 

The  picture  of  the  Venus  gave  place  to  the  Virginia 
girl  in  the  saddle  of  a  horse,  and  that  brought  him  from 
the  mythical  romantic  back  to  the  real. 

Her  manner  had  changed,  and  her  voice  had  something 
of  dread  in  its  tone.  "Now  comes  the  horrible  part  of  it," 
she  continued.  "  I  went  back  to  the  hotel,  and  on  the  way 
I  met  Lord  Churton,  coming  in  from  an  early  walk.  We 
went  in  to  breakfast  together.  The  others  of  the  party 
were  already  at  the  table.  '  Have  you  been  in  bathing?  ' 
said  Lady  Carisbrooke  as  I  sat  down.  'Your  hair  is  all 
wet.'  I  blushed  arid  stammered  out,  somewhat  proud  of 
my  feat,  that  I  had  swum  into  the  Blue  Grotto.  '  Where 
have  you  been,  Churton  ?  '  she  asked,  turning  to  her  son. 
'Your  hair  is  wet  also.'  I  looked  at  him.  It  was  true. 
I  began  to  blush  again.  'You  might  infer,'  he  answered, 
'that  I  was  in  swimming,  too.'  And  with  that  he  coolly 
turned  to  me  and  said,  'It  was  rather  chilly  this  morning, 
wasn't  it?'  Behind  his  face  I  could  see  his  sneering 
vengeance,  saying  tacitly,  'You  will  make  a  fool  of  me, 
will  you?  My  turn  has  come  now.'  There  was  dead 
silence  at  the  table.  It  was  one  of  those  situations  where 
explanations  are  impossible.  I  lost  my  presence  of  mind, 
and  rushed  from  the  room.  That,  of  course,  was  my 
conviction." 

The  rest  of  her  story  was  broken  by  sobs  and  outbursts 
of  fury  as  she  revived  the  humiliating  sequel. 

"  Lady  Carisbrooke  came  to  me  after  breakfast  and  said 
that  the  steamer  would  take  me  to  Naples  at  noon,  and 
that  I  had  better  get  back  to  America  before  I  corrupted 
her  young  son  further.  She  would  listen  to  nothing. 
When  she  gave  me  some  bank  notes,  I  tore  them  up  and 
flung  them  in  her  face.  Well,  to  bring  the  story  to  an 
end,  I  did  come  home,  thinking  that  I  might  grow  to 


346  HENRY  BOUBLAND 

endure  my  husband;  but  oh,  Henry!  that  was  terrible. 
He  had  gone  down  to  worse  and  worse.  It  was  like 
coming  to  a  pig  in  his  pen." 

The  nervous  strain,  maintained  through  the  narrative, 
relaxed  at  the  close  and  she  began  to  weep  the  tears  of 
utter  helplessness.  A  blast  of  human  pity  swept  down 
upon  Bourland's  will  and  shattered  it  like  the  mast  of  a 
storm-beaten  vessel.  He  took  her  in  his  arms  and  gave 
her  the  full  tribute  of  human  affection.  She  did  not 
resist. 

"Tell  me,"  she  asked,  when  she  had  regained  her  self- 
control,  "do  you  believe  I  have  told  you  the  truth?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered  quickly.  "I  believe  you  unre 
servedly." 

"And  with  the  knowledge  of  this  one  affair,  are  you 
willing  to  blot  out  all  the  others  as  untrue  ?  " 

He  was  the  slave  of  the  moment.  He  answered  firmly, 
"Yes,  everything." 

"  Have  I  won  your  full  respect  now  ?  " 

He  assured  her  of  that,  and  with  greater  emphasis  as 
she  repeated  the  question.  Then  with  a  sigh  of  relief,  she 
said,  "  I  can  go  back  now  with  more  courage  to  be  buried 
alive."  But  not  yet  content  with  the  fulness  of  her  con 
fession,  she  broke  out  again:  "Oh,  Henry!  I  want  you 
to  know  it,  —  let  the  world  say  what  it  will, —  if  I've  been 
sinful,  my  sins  have  been  selfishness,  vanity,  pride,  mean 
ness,  ingratitude,  cruelty,  but  what  they  accuse  me  of  — 


never." 


He  bent  down  and  kissed  the  hand  which  she  placed  in 
his. 

"I  shall  go  back  now  and  take  the  final  vows.  It  is 
best  for  me  —  for  us  both." 

"Why?"  he  asked. 

"I'm  afraid  to  trust  myself  in  the  world  all  alone. 
Besides,  don't  you  see  the  other  reason?  Suppose  you 
should  be  foolish,  even  more  so  than  to-night,  and  I  should 
be  weaker,  don't  you  see,  Henry,  that  you  might  wreck 
your  future  and  spoil  your  splendid  career?  You  mustn't 
do  that.  You  must  go  do  great  things,  and  I  shall  be 


IN   THE   CONFESSIONAL  347 

proud  of  your  success.  Just  as  much, "  she  added  tenderly, 
"as  if  I  could  share  it." 

There  was  a  touch  of  voluntary  martyrdom  in  her  words. 
He  became  very  thoughtful,  and  made  no  reply.  If  she 
was  disappointed  at  his  silence,  she  gave  no  sign. 

When  Bourland  left  her  and  began  to  think  it  all  over 
alone,  he  had  a  mean  opinion  of  himself.  He  had  done 
her  great  injustice  during  the  long  separation.  He  had 
condemned  her  unheard.  Now,  under  the  spell  of  this 
evening,  he  saw  her  as  something  very  noble,  something 
exalted  above  himself.  For,  say  what  he  might,  the  fact 
remained  present  to  his  consciousness,  that  all  his  feelings 
for  her  had  been  such  as  a  man  likes  to  secrete,  especially 
from  the  knowledge  of  his  better  self.  Her  charms  and 
attractions  had  not  appealed  to  him  in  the  language  of 
spiritual  aspiration.  Indeed,  they  had  only  touched  the 
surface  of  his  life,  and  so  long  as  his  mind  was  bent  upon 
his  political  advancement,  they  possessed  little  or  no  dis 
tracting  power.  But  now,  after  this  confession,  he  knew 
her  to  be,  or  to  have  become,  a  stronger  woman  —  one 
capable  of  great  restraint;  one  capable,  perhaps,  of  a  great 
sacrifice.  She  had  entered  into  a  higher  caste  of  being. 


CHAPTER  XLIV 

OUT  OF  THE  MOUTH  OF  BABES 

THE  demonstration  of  the  Readjusters  in  Schumann 
Hall  had  become  a  fact  of  local  history. 

At  first  the  Conservatives  did  not  take  it  seriously,  but 
the  show  of  influence  and  strength  which  succeeding  events 
revealed,  soon  brought  them  to  a  sense  of  the  menacing 
danger.  Barlowe  posed  as  a  Conservative ;  for  he  did  not 
think  it  judicious  to  break  altogether  with  his  own  party ; 
nevertheless  he  openly  courted  the  help  of  all  who  desired 
to  destroy  "the  Juggernaut  which  was  crushing  out  the 
vitality  of  the  people."  His  speakers  proclaimed  at  court 
house  and  cross-road  the  specious  arguments  which  the 
schoolmaster  had  taught  them.  They  sought  to  obscure 
moral  distinctions,  and  to  appeal  to  the  pocket;  and,  while 
they  did  so,  they  tried  to  hide  the  real  purpose  of  the  agi 
tation  under  the  profession  of  humanitarian  motives. 

The  men  of  real  character  saw  that  their  state  was 
threatened  with  an  indelible  stigma.  Here  was  a  move 
ment  led  by  a  native  Virginian,  a  distinguished  general, 
and  supported  by  many  of  her  citizens,  proclaiming  an 
intention  which,  if  effected,  would  destroy  the  credit  of 
the  state,  and  bring  upon  her  eternal  shame.  The  Bour 
bons,  naturally,  were  not  blind  to  the  crisis,  and,  to  para 
phrase  the  statement  of  the  historian  of  the  readjustment 
controversy,  they  put  forth  their  most  strenuous  efforts. 
Men  who  had  anything,  gave  to  the  cause  with  unstinted 
liberality.  All  men  in  touch  with  public  affairs  went  upon 
platform  and  stump,  and  leading  statesmen  gave  their  time 
and  energy  to  the  cause,  and  left  no  region  of  the  state  in 
ignorance  of  the  significance  of  the  issue. 

348 


OUT   OF   THE   MOUTH   OF   BABES  349 

It  was  a  campaign  likely  to  arouse  the  passions ;  for  it 
was  a  question  of  honor.  As  time  passed,  and  the  discus 
sions  became  heated,  charges  and  the  recriminations  came 
fast  and  furious.  Arguments  became  personal,  alterca 
tions  were  frequent,  and  in  the  heat  of  anger  men  quit 
talking  and  took  to  their  weapons.  Baiiowe's  faction, 
bent  on  victory  at  any  price,  began  to  assert  that  there 
was  a  plot  to  rob  them  of  success  by  wholesale  bribery  and 
ballot  stuffing ;  and  the  more  audacious  among  them  began 
to  talk  of  Lynch  Law  for  their  opponents,  advising  that  the 
polls  be  located  near  trees,  and  that  plenty  of  stout  cords 
should  be  at  hand. 

Bourland  began  the  campaign  with  desperate  vigor.  He 
realized  now  that  he  had  been  paying  too  much  devotion 
to  the  past,  that  he  had  pitched  his  speeches  to  a  too  ex 
alted  strain,  and  that  in  some  quarters  he  had  lost  in  influ 
ence.  He  had  not  kept  in  touch  with  changes  of  sentiment, 
nor  had  he  developed  with  the  new  conditions. 

He  stood  again  for  the  legislature,  and  Parker,  who  was 
running  for  Congress,  put  up  against  him  a  man  of  consid 
erable  personal  popularity.  Bourland  was  not  at  all  sure 
that  he  could  win,  certainly  not  without  an  energetic  effort. 

Three  weeks  after  the  campaign  opened,  he  was  down 
with  a  fever  at  the  Hall.  This  sickness  probably  secured 
his  election.  It  was  reported  that  he  was  dangerously  ill, 
and  sympathy  —  a  feeling  to  which  Southerners  are  particu 
larly  susceptible  —  got  him  more  votes  than  any  ardent 
rhetoric  could  have  done.  "  If  he  lives,  we  couldn't  have 
a  better  man ;  and  if  he  dies,  don't  let  him  die  with  the 
thought  that  we  have  deserted  him.  Remember  he  is  one 
of  Pickett's  veterans."  Such  was  the  plea  of  his  friends, 
and  Parker's  man  had  no  argument  to  nullify  this  appeal 
to  the  affections. 

The  elections  came  off  after  Bourland,  who  had  been 
attended  by  Eleanor  and  Elsie  too,  was  able  to  get  about 
the  house.  He  carried  his  district  by  a  very  small  majority. 
But  in  the  state  at  large  the  Readjuster  ticket  was  success 
ful  far  beyond  expectation,  and  from  the  indications  it  was 
probable  that  Barlowe's  party  would  control  the  legislature. 


350  HENRY  BOURLAND 

Bourland,  weak  in  body,  sick  at  heart,  saw  that  the  desire 
and  ambition  of  his  life  would  probably  not  be  fulfilled ; 
at  best  there  was  small  chance  of  it  now.  Baiiowe  was  in 
power  ;  and  Barlowe,  doubtless,  after  what  had  taken  place 
between  them,  would  seize  only  too  eagerly  the  opportunity 
to  revenge  himself  on  his  enemy. 

Letters  came  from  prominent  Bourbons,  however,  telling 
him  not  to  give  up  the  fight,  and  pledging  their  support. 

When  the  legislature  assembled,  he  went  up  to  Richmond, 
taking  Randall  with  him.  Elsie  remained  with  Eleanor  at 
the  Hall.  She  did  not  want  "  to  go  up  for  life,"  as  she 
phrased  it  in  an  irreligious  moment,  until  the  senatorial 
election  was  over  and  she  knew  the  fate  of  her  friend. 

It  was  Randall's  first  visit  to  Richmond,  and  during  the 
first  days,  while  the  legislature  was  being  organized,  his 
father  showed  him  the  historic  memorials  of  the  city.  To 
the  boy,  who  from  infancy  had  been  eloquently  taught  by 
his  aunt  the  rights  and  wrongs  of  the  Confederacy  until 
the  narrative  lay  upon  his  mind  as  vivid  as  an  actual 
experience,  Richmond  was  like  a  city  of  ancient  Greece  to 
the  first  visit  of  a  classical  scholar. 

But  the  deepest  impression  of  all  came  not  from  the 
memorials  of  the  war  days,  but  from  a  visit  to  St.  John's 
church,  set  on  a  high  hill  that  overlooks  the  city  and  the 
valley  of  the  James.  Here,  his  father  explained  to  him,  in 
the  early  days  when  the  English  Parliament  was  humiliat 
ing  the  colonies  with  iniquitous  laws,  there  rose  a  young 
man,  who,  fearless  of  the  halter,  loving  independence,  and 
preferring  his  manhood  to  his  life,  flung  his  single  defiance 
into  the  face  of  the  king  and  tyrannical  power. 

"  Stand  here,  Chap,  right  by  the  door  of  this  pew.  That 
is  where  Patrick  Henry  stood  when  he  spoke." 

He  made  the  boy  take  position  on  the  spot,  and  repeat 
the  words  of  that  famous  speech. 

"  Three  millions  of  people,  armed  in  the  holy  cause  of 
liberty,  and  with  such  a  country  as  we  possess,  are  invinci 
ble  by  any  force  which  our  enemy  can  send  against  us." 

The  little  fellow,  by  his  father's  direction,  raised  the  holy 
cause  aloft  with  his  right  hand. 


OUT   OF   THE   MOUTH   OF   BABES  351 

"  Our  chains  are  forged.  Their  clanking  may  be  heard 
upon  the  plains  of  Boston,"  repeated  the  child,  imitating 
his  father's  gesture  toward  the  far  north. 

"  Sir,  I  know  not  what  course  others  may  take,  but  as 
for  me,  give  me  liberty  or  give  me  death,"  rang  out  the 
young  orator. 

"  Thunder  it  out,  Chap,  as  if  you  were  all  on  fire.  Bend 
over,  like  a  slave,  just  as  Henry  did.  Hold  your  hands 
this  way,  crossed,  as  if  there  were  chains  around  them,  and 
then  when  you  come  to  4  liberty,'  tear  the  chains  away  as 
if  nothing  in  the  universe  could  keep  you  from  being  free." 

He  did  it  once,  twice,  to  his  father's  satisfaction,  who 
afterward  caught  him  in  his  arms,  and  with  a  voice  almost 
broken  by  sobs,  told  him  to  take  Patrick  Henry  as  his 
model,  and  he  would  grow  to  be  a  strong  man,  of  service 
to  his  people. 

The  senatorial  election  was  the  chief  subject  of  talk 
among  the  delegates.  Friends  of  Barlowe  announced 
their  intention  of  voting  for  him,  but  the  leader  of  the 
Readjusters  had  not  publicly  sanctioned  the  use  of  his 
name.  Bourland  was  the  expected  and  inevitable  choice 
of  the  Conservatives,  yet  a  canvass  soon  demonstrated  that 
if  Barlowe  entered  as  a  contestant,  they  could  not  elect 
their  man. 

There  were  several  reasons  why  Barlowe  should  not  be 
senator,  one  of  which  was  that  he  was  not  fit.  Some  of 
his  advisers,  it  was  rumored,  urged  him  to  strengthen  his 
influence  in  the  state  by  making  a  compromise  with  Bour 
land,  agreeing  to  send  him  to  the  Senate  if  the  Conserva 
tive  leader  later  would  support  Barlowe  for  governor. 
Such  an  arrangement  might  be  to  the  personal  disadvan 
tage  of  Barlowe,  but  it  would  aid  and  advance  his  pro 
fessed  cause.  Bourland,  it  was  argued,  was  now  so  near 
to  the  attainment  of  his  well-known  desire  that  he  would 
prefer  to  make  terms  rather  than  lose  the  coveted  position 
of  honor. 

But  Bourland,  after  studying  the  situation,  saw  that  he 
could  not  be  elected  without  a  capitulation  of  principle. 
Any  such  proposition  he  resolved  to  refuse.  For  he  had 


352  HENRY  BOURLAND 

taken  his  stand  before  the  people  upon  the  platform  of 
integrity  and  the  commonweal,  and  he  would  not  now 
retreat  from  principle  and  stultify  his  own  character. 

He  had  made  up  his  mind  to  defeat,  and  though  within 
he  was  dejected,  yes,  broken-hearted,  yet  in  the  presence 
of  his  political  associates  the  natural  dignity  of  his  nature 
gave  him  an  outward  air  of  calm  indifference,  which,  on 
the  slightest  provocation,  bubbled  into  humor  and  persi 
flage.  He  meant  to  go  down  smiling,  like  a  gentleman. 

The  night  before  the  election,  he  was  visited  in  his 
hotel  by  two  men.  They  came,  they  said,  to  talk  over  the 
situation,  and  they  suggested  that  Randall  be  sent  from 
the  room. 

"  Oh,  let  him  stay,"  answered  the  father.  "  I  can  trust 
him.  He  knows  as  much  about  politics  now  as  the  aver 
age  voter.  He  went  early  to  school." 

Although  the  boy  embarrassed  them,  they  could  insist 
no  further. 

"  I  suppose  you  realize,  Colonel,  that  you  haven't  got 
much  of  a  show,"  said  the  spokesman. 

"  No,  I  suppose  not,  unless  some  of  the  delegates  see  a 
new  light  before  morning,"  he  responded  with  smiling 
countenance.  The  great  ambition  was  dying  in  his  breast ; 
but  there  were  no  signs  of  the  death  throes. 

"  We  come  from  Barlowe.  He  is  willing  to  withdraw 
and  support  you,"  continued  the  spokesman. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  that,  Chap  ?  "  asked  the  father. 
"  Here's  a  proposition  from  Barlowe.  Two  years  ago  I 
blocked  one  of  his  schemes,  and  now  he  can  block  one  of 
mine.  But  he  won't  do  it.  He  sends  word  that  he  will 
help  me.  What  do  you  think  of  that,  boy?"  His  face 
showed  that  his  words  bore  a  playful  seriousness. 

"  I  think  he  must  be  heaping  coals  of  fire  on  your  head, 
dad.  He  must  be  a  good  man." 

The  two  visitors  sat  like  schoolboys  who  had  just  failed 
in  their  lessons. 

"  Tell  General  Barlowe,"  said  Bourland,  turning  abruptly 
toward  the  emissaries,  "  that  I  don't  understand  his  kind 
offer,  but  that  I  should  like  the  election  to-morrow,  and 


OUT   OF   THE   MOUTH   OF   BABES  353 

that  I  accept  his  help.  Tell  him,  too,  that  I  thank  him 
all  the  more,  because  I  cannot  repay  him  in  any  other 
way."  He  was  intensely  amused  at  this  little  farce;  he 
was  beyond  the  reach  of  temptation  now. 

The  visitors,  in  turn,  didn't  seem  to  understand  Bour- 
land.  Either  he  was  a  fool,  or  they  were  a  pair  of  them. 

"  But,  Colonel,"  ventured  the  second  man. 

"  Oh  !  bother  the  4  buts,'  "  cried  he,  breaking  the  man  off 
with  well-feigned  vexation.  "There  is  always  a  4but.' 
4  Buts '  spoil  everything.  But  for  Waterloo,  Napoleon 
would  have  died  an  emperor.  But  for  a  hundred  miles  of 
rock,  a  ship  could  sail  from  the  Gulf  of  Mexico  into  the 
Pacific.  But  for  a  ladder,  a  man  could  climb  to  the  moon." 

"  You  don't  suppose,  Colonel,"  put  in  the  first  speaker. 

He  wouldn't  let  the  man  finish.  He  went  on  with  a 
gleeful  laugh:  " No, gentlemen,  I  don't  suppose  anything. 
I  just  accept  this  offer  of  Barlowe's,  which  is  exceptionally 
noble  on  the  face  of  it.  I  don't  suppose  it  to  be  anything 
else." 

"  We've  got  enough  votes  to  control  the  senatorial  elec 
tion,"  said  the  first  man,  "  but  not  enough  to  pass  a  read 
justment  act  over  the  governor's  veto.  You  know  that." 

"  Of  course  I  do." 

"  The  governor  hasn't  declared  himself  against  us, 
though  we  fear  he  may  veto  the  measure.  We  want  to 
bring  some  influence  to  bear  on  him.  You  have  a  great 
deal  of  power  in  his  counsels."  The  sentences  came  piece 
meal.  "  The  case  has  changed,  don't  you  see  ?  This  is  a 
democracy.  The  voice  of  the  people  is  sovereign.  The 
majority  of  the  people,  at  the  last  election,  have  declared 
for  readjustment.  Why  should  not  you,  a  mere  represen 
tative,  obey  the  voice  of  the  people,  suppress  your  private 
views,  and  vote  with  us  ?  There  is  a  perfectly  logical  jus 
tification  for  a  change  in  your  attitude.  It  will  make  you 
senator." 

Bourland  was  not  smiling  now.  The  tempter  was  near, 
but  he  had  put  him  down  two  years  before,  and  now  he 
was  far  too  strong  for  his  enticements. 

"  You  are  trying  to  play  the   devil  to  me,  gentlemen. 

2A 


354  HENRY  BOURLAND 

It's  the  old  Faust  story  again.  You  will  be  my  servants 
and  get  me  what  I  want,  but  in  exchange  you  ask  for  my 
soul.  Isn't  that  about  it  ?  " 

They  had  no  ready  words  to  answer.  They  mumbled 
something  about  a  "  fair  exchange  "  and  "  political  com 
promises." 

The  seriousness  of  Bourland's  face  melted  into  a  benig 
nant  calmness. 

"  Chap,"  said  he,  "  it  is  time  for  you  to  go  to  bed. 
Gentlemen,  you  won't  mind  if  I  break  our  conversation  a 
moment  to  let  him  say  his  prayers  ?  It  is  his  regular  cus 
tom.  Come,  Chap,  don't  be  embarrassed.  These  gentle 
men,  no  doubt,  have  boys  of  their  own." 

The  child  was  naturally  reluctant,  and  he  obeyed  only 
after  the  second  command.  He  knelt  down,  nevertheless, 
by  his  father's  knee  and  said  the  Lord's  prayer,  although 
it  was  hardly  above  a  whisper.  As  he  came  to  the  words, 
"  Lead  us  not  into  temptation,  but  deliver  us  from  evil," 
Bourland  looked  up  and  saw  before  him  two  tense  faces. 
The  men  sat  there  as  if  gorgonized,  except  for  the  strain 
of  feeling  in  their  countenances. 

"  Good  night,  Chap,"  said  his  father,  as  he  kissed  the 
boy  when  he  arose.  "  Run  along  now.  Say  good  night  to 
the  gentlemen." 

He  did  so,  and  one  of  the  men,  who,  though  a  politician, 
was  also  a  father,  bent  down  and  kissed  the  little  fellow's 
cheek. 

After  he  was  gone,  Bourland  turned  again  to  his  visit 
ors,  but  they  had  no  desire  to  renew  the  interrupted  con 
versation. 

"  I  guess  I'll  have  to  go  under,  friends,"  said  Bourland, 
breaking  the  silence.  "  I'll  have  to  give  up  my  cherished 
ambition.  Perhaps  I've  tried  to  reach  higher  than  I  could 
grasp.  But  there  are  honest  little  fellows  in  Virginia, 
growing  up  to  do  what  we  can't  do  ourselves,  and  we 
mustn't  set  them  bad  examples." 

He  stood  up  at  his  full  height,  and  spoke  with  quiet 
cheerfulness. 

They  rose  to  go,  and  one  of  them,  in  leaving,  turned 


OUT   OF   THE   MOUTH   OF  BABES  355 

back,  put  out  a  strong,  trembling  hand,  and  said  with  an 
outburst  of  feeling  that  was  both  sacrilegious  and  divine:  — 

"  By  God,  Colonel,  if  I  wasn't  pledged  I'd  vote  for 
you  myself." 

"  I  thank  you  for  that,  sir.  You  have  my  best 
wishes." 

He  closed  the  door  and  went  in  to  his  little  political 
bedfellow. 


CHAPTER   XLV 

INTEGER   VIT^E,   SCELERISQUE  PURUS 

THE  next  day  the  two  houses  of  the  legislature  con 
vened  in  joint  session  for  the  election  of  senator. 

The  flames  of  passion,  so  fierce  during  the  campaign, 
had  greatly  abated  after  the  results  were  known.  The 
stoical-tempered  calmed  themselves  to  the  inevitable ; 
the  pessimists  declared  that  the  rule  of  the  "best  people" 
was  over,  and  they  sat  down  to  nioan,  while  the  victorious 
Readj asters  prepared  for  a  high  carnival. 

When,  however,  the  candidacy  of  Barlowe  was  definitely 
announced,  there  was  a  revival  of  bitter  feeling  on  the  part 
of  the  Conservatives,  due  particularly  to  the  fact  that  he 
was  a  deserter  from  their  own  party  and,  therefore,  the 
object  of  that  particular  rancor  which  falls  upon  the 
renegade.  The  resentment  of  his  supporters  was  aroused, 
in  return,  by  a  rumor  that,  if  he  did  stand  for  the  Senate, 
"he  should  go  there  with  the  blackest  brandmark  that 
truth  could  burn  upon  his  forehead." 

"  Talk  as  little  as  possible,"  had  been  Barlowe's  orders. 
"  Wait  until  they  attack  me.  Then,  if  they  begin  to  sling 
mud,  give  'em  hell." 

Bouiiand,  although  he  had  given  up  all  hope,  and 
although  his  friends  urged  him  to  withdraw  in  order 
to  save  his  feelings,  refused  to  retire  in  the  midst  of 
battle. 

"  I  didn't  run  from  the  whole  Yankee  army  at  Gettys 
burg,"  he  said  with  pardonable  pride,  "  and  I'm  not  going 
to  run  away  from  a  mere  pirate.  Somebody  has  got  to  be 
a  figurehead  in  order  to  show  our  voting  strength.  Why 
shouldn't  I  ?  I  was  ready  to  take  the  plum ;  now  I'll  take 
the  medicine." 

356 


INTEGER   VITJ3,   SOELE1USQUE   PU11US       357 

At  the  opening  of  the  session,  Parker  sat  a  gleeful  spec 
tator  in  the  gallery.  He  was  going  to  Congress,  and, 
from  his  safe  point  of  observation,  he  could  smell  gun 
powder  among  the  legislators  below.  Besides,  he  had 
prepared  a  little  bomb  of  his  own,  the  fuse  of  which  was 
timed  to  burn  that  very  morning.  He  was  impatient  to 
see  the  effect. 

Barlowe's  name  was  placed  in  nomination  by  one  of  the 
officers  on  his  staff  during  the  war.  This  man  dwelt  prin 
cipally  upon  the  army  record  of  his  chief,  recalling  the 
fact  that  he  rose  to  distinction  from  the  rank  of  private. 
He  spoke  also  of  his  kindness  to  officers  and  troops,  and 
he  paid  many  tributes  to  his  character.  He  closed  with  a 
eulogy  of  the  candidate  as  an  energetic  leader,  a  man  of 
the  people,  careful  of  the  rights  of  both  races,  and  as  a 
citizen  in  the  front  rank  of  modern  politics. 

There  was  great  applause  from  the  allied  powers. 

Major  Talcott  put  Bourland  in  nomination  with  a  speech 
wherein  he  spoke  of  him  as  the  most  distinguished  man  in 
Virginia,  a  soldier,  a  citizen,  an  orator,  and  a  gentleman. 
He  reviewed  his  record,  his  personal  association  with  Lee, 
his  dignified  conservatism  during  the  trials  of  reconstruc 
tion,  his  later  services  to  the  state,  and  his  recent  escape 
from  death,  which  could  not  fail  to  suggest  the  thought 
that  Providence  had  spared  him  for  a  purpose. 

The  nomination  was  seconded  by  the  patriarch  of  the 
house,  a  man  with  an  empty  sleeve. 

So  far  the  proceedings  had  been  calm  and  orderly ;  but 
there  was  bad  blood,  which  had  to  be  let  sooner  or 
later. 

"  I  rise  to  ask,"  said  a  Conservative,  opening  the  attack, 
"  I  rise  to  ask  to  what  party  this  noble  leader  of  the  oppo 
sition  belongs  ?  I  see  certain  members  here  who  are  evi 
dently  his  friends  and  supporters,  Does  he  belong  to  that 
dusky  tribe?  I  see  certain  members  who  applaud  this 
man  of  doughty  deeds  upon  the  field,  men  who  make  it 
their  merit  that  they  fought  against  our  cause,  if  they  ever 
fought  at  all.  Does  he  represent  those  heroes  ?  or  will  he 
go  to  the  National  Senate  and  proclaim  to  the  country  at 


358  HENRY   BOURLAND 

large  that  he  represents  a  new  party,  the  Repudiators,  who 
have  sent  him  up  to  Washington  to  show  the  world  the 
latest  way  of  paying  honest  debts?  I  ask  to  what  party 
he  belongs,  Radical  or  Conservative,  this  man  who  seeks 
to  hunt  with  the  hounds  and  run  with  the  hare  ?  For,  so 
far  as  I  can  see,  he  stands  for  no  party,  no  principle,  no 
people,  nothing  but  Bill  Barlowe." 

A  Radical  sprang  up  to  reply.  Barlowe,  he  declared, 
represented  an  unbaptized  party  of  the  people,  and  after 
he  had  purged  politics  of  dastardly  slanderers  and  vin 
dictive  enemies,  he  would  restore  the  Conservative  party 
to  all  its  pristine  splendors. 

This  declaration  was  greeted  with  a  mingling  of  jeers 
and  applause. 

The  pitch  of  expectancy  rose  to  the  strain  when  a  man 
named  Shattuck  took  the  floor ;  for  he  was  known  as  a 
fire-eater  with  a  bent  for  personalities  and  a  gift  for 
venomous  epithet. 

"  I  hope  when  this  party  comes  to  be  baptized,"  he 
began,  "it  will  be  by  immersion.  From  outward  appear 
ances  it  needs  to  be  washed." 

Laughter  drowned  out  any  other  form  of  demonstration 
at  this  sally. 

"  But  I  pass  from  that,"  continued  Shattuck,  "  to  give 
voice  to  an  indignation  that  cannot  be  repressed;  to 
bewail  the  fact  that  this  commonwealth,  our  mother  of 
unsullied  honor  and  noble  dignity,  is  to  be  dragged  from 
her  proud  place  of  precedence  in  the  assembly  of  states, 
and  is  to  be  degraded  to  the  infamy  of  a  pariah.  We  are 
poor,  yet  even  though  we  be  poor,  shall  we  sell  our 
mother's  honor  for  gold  and  deliver  her  over  to  those  who 
stalk  in  the  purlieus  of  darkness  and  inhabit  the  brothels 
and  the  stews  ?  " 

Several  tried  to  interrupt  him,  but  the  chair  evidently 
considered  that  the  speaker  had  not  transgressed  the  limits 
of  parliamentary  decorum. 

"  I  would,  sir,  that  I  could  close  my  eyes  to  the  awful 
reality,"  cried  Shattuck,  looking  toward  the  presiding 
officer.  "I  would  I  could  believe  that  some  barbarian, 


INTEGER  VIT^  SCELEKISQUE  PURUS      359 

some  Attila  with  his  horde  of  Huns,  had  arisen  from  his 
grave,  and  had  overwhelmed  us  with  a  violence  which 
could  not  stain  our  dignity  or  our  good  repute.  But 
though  Attila  is  dead,  a  worse  than  Attila  is  here.  For 
he  who  debauches  his  neighbors  conscience  with  insidious 
sophistry,  and  he  who,  in  the  lust  of  power  and  the  greed 
of  gain,  pawns  the  irredeemable  integrity  of  the  state  that 
gave  him  birth,  that  nourished  him,  that  elevated  him 
from  amongst  her  sons,  he,  I  say,  is  more  to  be  despised 
than  any  plundering  barbarian  of  the  darker  ages." 

Signs  of  commotion  began  to  appear  in  several  quarters, 
but  at  this  juncture  some  quick-minded  individual  called 
out:  — 

"  Let  the  mad  bull  roar.     His  horns  are  sawed  off." 

Many  of  the  auditors,  excited  by  the  language,  and 
curious  to  hear  a  climax,  called  out,  "  Let  him  go  on  ! 
Let  him  talk  !  " 

"  I  will  add  but  one  thing  more,"  he  said,  as  he  began 
again  with  a  rasp  which  showed  that  the  wasp  was  about 
to  sting.  "In  justice  to  us  who  are  here  in  a  minority, 
in  justice  to  the  future  which  will  surely  endeavor  to 
obliterate  the  ignominy  of  the  present,  let  this  victorious 
brigand  march  up  to  the  councils  of  the  nation,  trailing 
behind  his  motley  band  of  Yahoos  and  his  sable  sons  of 
Sahara,  and  let  him  march  in  fitting  uniform  —  the  uniform 
of  the  stripes." 

Before  he  could  sit  down  several  Radicals  made  a  rush 
at  him,  while  the  chairman  vainly  pounded  his  gavel. 
There  was  a  confusion  of  shouts  and  indignant  protests. 
A  brawl  was  imminent,  when  a  wag,  with  a  bit  of  humor, 
saved  the  day  and  set  everybody  laughing.  A  man  was 
seen  to  fumble  in  his  back  pocket,  and  two  or  three  cooler 
men,  thinking  he  was  about  to  draw  a  weapon,  tried  to 
stop  him. 

"  Let  me  alone,"  he  cried  out,  with  intentional  distinct 
ness.  "  I'm  only  hunting  for  my  plug  of  tobacco.  I 
want  to  present  it  to  the  honorable  member.  I  think  he 
deserves  a  chew  after  that  speech." 

The  laughter  which  mollified  the  rising  storm  of  passion 


360  HENRY   BOURLAND 

had  not  fully  subsided,  when  a  man,  one  of  Barlowe's 
adherents,  arose  and  demanded  the  floor. 

Parker,  with  face  tense  with  knowledge  and  expectancy, 
leaned  forward  from  his  seat  in  the  gallery. 

Bourland,  as  a  member  of  the  house,  was  attending  the 
session ;  but  during  the  preliminaries  he  had  left  his  seat, 
and  had  gone  off  the  main  floor.  He  stood  talking  with 
some  friends,  and  watching  the  discussion  from  time  to 
time  from  behind  the  railing. 

The  next  speaker  began  what  promised  to  be  a  con 
ciliatory  speech.  Enemies,  he  declared,  might  assail  their 
leader  with  malicious  spite,  and  in  their  impotent  fancies 
they  might  dress  him  in  any  garb  their  envy  might  devise. 
But  none  of  their  insinuations  could  dim  the  lustre  and 
the  halo  which  his  benevolence  and  good  deeds  had  won 
for  him  in  the  eyes  of  the  world. 

Suddenly  his  manner  changed,  and  he  squared  around 
to  face  his  opponents. 

"  You  talk  of  felon's  stripes,  you  over  there  who  prate 
and  babble  about  honor  and  good  names.  But  what  man 
ner  of  man  have  you  put  forward  to  represent  you  ?  " 

Bourland,  behind  the  railing,  heard  the  question,  and  he 
came  to  a  position  where  he  could  hear  and  see  what  fol 
lowed.  "  It's  going  to  be  a  rehash  of  Lacamac  politics,"  he 
thought,  caring  very  little  what  the  man  might  say ;  for 
such  charges  had  become  cheap,  rusty  weapons  of  attack 
for  anybody. 

"  You,"  he  went  on  with  rising  scorn,  "  accusing  and 
abusing  us  from  your  pedestals  of  high  talk,  you  put 
forward,  as  your  representative  of  honor  and  morality,  a 
man  who  has  broken  the  most  sacred  law  of  the  decalogue ; 
a  man,  who  though  he  may  love  his  neighbor,  yet  feels  free 
to  seduce  his  neighbor's  wife." 

Bourland  felt  as  if  some  power  had  suddenly  plunged 
him  into  a  gurgle  of  dark  waters.  He  lost  his  sense  of 
location.  He  heard  murmurs,  then  nothing  but  silence. 
A  thought,  a  whole  train  of  thoughts,  dashed  out  from  his 
memory,  and  he  saw  them  in  a  light,  a  horrible,  ghastly 
illumination,  such  as  he  had  never  seen  before.  He  felt 


INTEGER  VITJE,  SCELEEISQUE  PURUS       361 

his  face  burn,  as  if  a  myriad  of  curious  eyes  were  blazing 
scornful  queries  at  him. 

In  fact,  the  men  in  that  house  believed  that  the  charge 
was  true ;  at  least  those  did  who  knew  about  his  private 
life  by  rumor  or  observation. 

This  was  the  situation  as  they  saw  it.  Clayton's  wife 
was  far  above  him  socially.  They  had  separated.  She  was 
beautiful,  and  not  particularly  conservative  about  con 
ventions  and  appearances.  She  was  an  old  flame  of 
Bourland's,  and  was  on  terms  of  intimacy  with  him. 
Indeed,  she  was  even  then  staying  in  his  house.  Besides, 
there  were  those  ugly  stories  about  her  escapades  abroad, 
and  Bourland  —  well  —  he  was  a  man.  Of  course  !  Men 
of  the  world  thought  little  about  the  matter.  Peccadilloes 
in  private  life  were  expected  of  political  characters,  and 
these  did  not  detract  from  the  faith  in  their  integrity  as 
public  officials.  Indeed,  when  the  speaker  dragged  the 
private  life  of  Bourland  into  the  political  dispute,  many 
men  cried  out,  "  Shame  !  " 

But  the  accusation  had  been  made,  and,  though  it  was 
false,  it  was  believed,  even  by  his  friends. 

No  better  occasion  could  be  imagined  for  a  man  to  test  the 
value  and  power  of  his  own  word,  backed  by  his  character. 

Bourland  stepped  into  the  enclosure  at  the  head  of  the 
accuser's  aisle.  He  knew  the  truth,  and  a  quick  reminis 
cence  gave  him  the  weak  points  in  his  accuser's  reputation. 
Fixing  his  eyes  upon  him,  he  stood  rigid,  absolutely  rigid, 
ten,  twenty,  thirty  seconds,  in  the  attitude  of  dogmatic 
self-assertion. 

The  delegates,  expectant,  could  hear  the  breathings  of 
their  own  respiration,  so  profound  was  the  silence. 

"  Members  of  this  house,"  he  said,  prolonging  each 
syllable,  "the  charge  which  this  person  has  made  is  not 
true." 

He  raised  his  right  arm,  and  with  doubled  fist  shaking 
to  the  vibrations  of  his  voice,  he  repeated  the  denial. 

"I  —  say  —  that  —  it  —  is  —  not  —  true." 

Every  muscle,  every  nerve,  every  member  of  his  body, 
was  drained  of  energy  to  enforce  the  utterance. 


362  HENRY   BOUKLAND 

He  walked  slowly  down  the  aisle  until  he  came  face  to 
face  with  his  accuser.  Shaking  a  contemptuous  finger  so 
close  to  him  that  the  man  involuntarily  made  motion  to 
evade  the  touch,  he  hurled  out  with  a  ferocity  of  scorn : 
"  Sir,  when  I  shed  my  blood  on  the  battle-field  of  Pennsyl 
vania,  where  were  you  ?  Answer  that  question,  and  then 
repeat  your  foul  slander." 

The  man  blanched  and  averted  his  eyes.  He  didn't  answer, 
for  he  knew,  as  did  many  another  in  that  audience,  that  he 
had  been  conscripted  into  the  army,  had  deserted,  and  had 
barely  escaped  from  a  court-martial  with  his  life. 

The  incident  for  that  day  was  closed.  Some  one  called 
for  the  previous  question. 

The  voting  began.  Bourland  took  little  interest  further 
in  the  proceedings.  The  verbal  duel  had  left  him  weak, 
unstrung.  When  the  announcement  was  made  that  Bar- 
lowe  was  elected,  when  cheering  and  loud  applause  fol 
lowed  it,  and  even  when  Barlowe  himself  was  conducted 
into  the  room  to  make  a  speech,  he  was  scarcely  aware  of 
what  was  taking  place. 

As  he  passed  into  the  rotunda  after  the  breaking  up  of 
the  session,  one  of  his  friends,  well  intentioned  no  doubt, 
burst  out  into  admiring  raillery  at  his  dramatic  self- 
defence. 

"It  was  sublime,  Colonel.  You  ought  to  go  on  the 
stage.  That  was  the  prettiest  bluff  I  ever  saw  in  all  rny 
life?' 

The  remark  lacerated  him  like  a  scalping  knife.  His 
word,  his  character,  even  among  his  friends,  had  failed  him 
at  his  need.  Oh !  what  was  the  use  of  integrity  in  such 
a  world  ? 

He  walked  down  the  steps  of  the  Capitol,  oblivious  of 
all  sensations  except  that  of  a  dull,  nauseating  emptiness 
of  being. 


BOOK   X 

THE  PASSING   OF  THE  CAVALIER 


CHAPTER  XLVI 

FATHER   AND   SON 

THERE  come  crises  in  the  lives  of  the  strongest  when, 
after  a  period  of  honest,  strenuous,  persistent  endeavor,  all 
the  powers  of  the  world,  of  destiny,  even  of  Providence, 
appear  to  be  in  league  to  break  them  down.  Then  the 
cherished  ideals,  however  noble  they  may  be,  however 
tenaciously  held,  are  on  the  verge  of  collapse.  Then  the 
lamp  of  faith  burns  low,  sputters,  and  goes  out,  and  in 
gloom  the  courage  of  the  spirit  grows  fearful  and  oozes 
away ;  we  can  feel  it  ooze,  like  physical  vigor  from  brain 
and  muscle,  blood  and  bone.  Then  the  moral  fibre,  the 
cable  which  for  so  long  has  held  the  vessel  of  manhood 
secure  at  its  mooring,  strand  by  strand,  begins  to  tear  and 
part  like  some  old  rope. 

In  this  crisis  the  tempter  comes,  as  he  came  to  the  man 
of  Uz,  with  jeering  whisper  in  the  moment  of  deepest  dejec 
tion  :  "  Dost  thou  still  retain  thine  integrity  ?  Curse  God, 
and  die." 

A  tempter,  with  some  such  words  as  these,  accompanied 
Bourland  home  from  Richmond.  He  was  exhausted  — 
utterly  used  up.  He  felt  like  some  wrecked  mariner, 
some  lone  swimmer,  who  has  fought  for  life  with  a  wrath 
ful  ocean,  struggled  until  he  could  struggle  no  more,  for 

363 


364  HENRY  BOUKLAND 

his  strength  was  spent,  and  now  he  was  about  to  sink,  glad, 
indifferently  glad,  that  the  end  had  come  at  last. 

In  his  own  communings,  Bourland  offered  no  pharisaical 
claims  of  merit ;  he  made  no  pleas  of  righteousness  that 
deserved  reward.  He  felt  himself  a  sinner,  just  like  other 
men;  and  when  he  prayed  he  beat  his  breast  like  the  publi 
can,  and  begged  mercy  for  his  sins.  But  he  knew  that  he 
had  tried,  amid  all  his  shortcomings  and  transgressions,  to 
play  the  part  of  a  man  as  he  conceived  the  r61e  of  a  man 
in  the  drama  of  life. 

In  his  youth  he  had  fought  for  the  cause  of  self-govern 
ment,  a  cause  which,  as  he  saw  it  in  its  provincial  limita 
tions,  defended  his  home  —  that  immemorial  first  love  of 
man  ;  and  he  had  rejected,  perforce,  that  encroaching  idea 
of  the  indissoluble  union  of  states,  that  idea  of  centralized 
nationality  not  then  fully  born.  He  had  fought;  he  had 
been  beaten.  Then  he  had  gone  back  to  his  home  with  the 
hope  that  he  might  save  the  wreckage  and  restore  the  pres 
tige  of  his  name  and  house  upon  the  old  foundations.  But 
in  that,  too,  he  had  failed.  He  tried,  then,  to  be  a  servant 
of  his  people  in  civic  life,  standing  by  his  standard  of  honor 
to  his  own  worldly  detriment,  as  a  soldier  stands  by  his  colors. 
There,  too,  he  had  been  beaten.  The  opposing  forces  in  the 
world,  whether  for  good  or  evil,  had  been  too  strong.  The 
world  had  no  place  for  him. 

But  the  bitter,  virulent  thing,  poisonous  to  faith,  to 
ideals,  to  all  that  was  heroic  in  his  nature,  was  the  fact 
that  when  he  was  accused  in  public  by  a  malingerer ;  when, 
with  his  record  on  one  side  and  his  character  on  the  other, 
he  had  denied  that  charge  flatly,  unreservedly,  a  friend 
had  patted  him  on  the  shoulder  and  had  called  him  a  con 
summate  actor. 

He  came  home  filled  with  the  poison  of  misanthropy. 

Elsie  was  still  with  Eleanor  at  the  Hall.  She  had 
delayed  her  departure  only  too  willingly  at  her  friend's 
request.  Before  them,  Bourland  tried  to  appear  careless, 
indifferent  to  his  defeat ;  but  the  women  discovered  him, 
though  they  said  little. 

Three  days  after  his  return,  a  notification  came  from  a 


FATHEK  AND   SON  365 

lawyer,  saying  that  in  two  weeks  the  mortgage  on  Bour- 
land  Hall  would  fall  due,  and  that  if  it  could  not  be  met, 
the  house  must  be  put  up  at  public  sale. 

"  It  will  have  to  go,"  he  murmured  ruefully.  "I'm  help 
less  now.  The  end  has  come." 

"  We  have  only  two  more  weeks,"  he  said  to  Eleanor,  as 
he  showed  her  the  letter. 

She  bore  it  bravely,  as  a  woman  always  bears  such  things. 
"  We  mustn't  sit  down  with  lamentations  like  Jeremiah," 
she  said  kindly,  as  she  handed  back  the  notification.  "  We 
have  still  got  our  health  and  hands." 

"  I  suppose  it  must  come  to  that  —  for  me.  But  you 
are  a  lady.  You  must  not  forget  that.  I  never  shall,  and 
no  sister  of  mine  shall  ever  — 

She  began  to  blush  violently. 

"  I  have  made  some  plans  of  my  own,"  she  broke  in  with 
a  sweet,  low  agitation. 

The  blush  put  him  at  once  on  the  trail  of  the  plans. 

"Which  one  is  it?"  he  inquired.  Of  course  he  knew; 
those  frequent  letters  had  suggested  the  answer  in  advance. 
But  the  question  was  one  of  those  deft  compliments,  so 
spontaneous  in  the  South,  which  chivalry  pays  to  feminine 
charms. 

"  Mr.  Anderson,"  she  said,  dropping  her  eyes. 

"Hmn!"  replied  Bourland,  with  a  guardian's  playful 
dubiousness  of  approval.  "  He's  a  Yankee.  But  I  guess 
he'll  do.  The  war's  over.  Why  didn't  you  take  Talcott  ?  " 

"  Because  Mr.  Anderson  is  more  like  —  like  my  idea  of 
a  man." 

He  took  her  in  his  arms,  and  gave  her  the  kiss  of  love 
and  of  blessing.  The  face  was  not  quite  so  beautiful  as  it 
had  been;  but  the  spirit  behind  it  —  that  was  a  placid, 
pale-shining  glory. 

"  What  a  sister  you  have  been  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  How 
can  I  give  you  away  ?  Of  course  I  shall,"  he  added  impetu 
ously.  "  It  would  be  selfish  for  me  to  want  to  keep  you." 

"  I  told  him  I  would  stay  with  you  as  long  as  we  lived 
in  the  Hall,"  she  answered.  Then  growing  confidential, 
she  continued :  "  It  was  very  hard  for  me  to  promise  him 


366  HENRY   BOUKLAND 

anything.  Because  with  all  our  losses  and  the  emptiness 
of  our  lives,  it  is  very  hard  for  me  to  forget.  I  haven't 
forgotten.  I  shall  never  forget  —  what  —  he  —  says  —  he 
—  will  —  try  —  to  —  replace.  I  fought  it  all  out  in  my 
mind,  —  it  took  me  a  long  time,  —  whether  it  was  right  to 
sit  down  all  alone,  and  brood  and  weep,  or  whether  it  was 
better  to  lock  it  up,  hide  it  away  until  God  gives  it  back 
to  us  some  day,  and,  in  the  meantime,  to  help  a  little,  to 
love  a  little  what  is  calling  for  love  in  the  world." 

She  could  hardly  finish.  She  buried  her  face  on  her 
brother's  breast,  and  clung  to  him,  hushing  her  sobs  in  the 
concealment  of  his  bosom. 

Brave  Heart!  This  Northern  pen  wavers  as  it  writes 
your  name.  You  are  the  real  hero  of  this  story.  You, 
who  sent  your  lover  forth  to  fight,  and  watched  at  home, 
through  dreary  days  and  sleepless  nights,  for  news  of  the 
battles;  you,  who,  when  all  was  lost,  took  up  your  cross 
and  broken  life  without  complaint,  and  bore  them  up  the 
rugged  steeps  of  Golgotha.  Suppose,  in  moments  of  resent 
ment,  of  human  weakness,  you  took  that  little  orphaned  boy 
upon  your  knee,  and  taught  him  —  to  ease  the  anguish  of 
your  grief  —  the  songs  of  the  great  secession,  and  told 
him  bitter  things  about  the  nation's  flag;  suppose  he  learned 
from  you  to  revere  above  all  things  the  memories  of  that 
lost  cause,  and  the  men  who  fought  for  it  honestly,  and 
died  for  it  nobly,  are  you  less  womanly,  less  worthy  of  our 
reverence  ?  You  only  loved  and  wept  for  your  own. 

Go,  heroic  Lady  of  the  old  South,  go  now  to  your  North 
ern  lover,  and  let  his  brave  heart  and  loving  hand  lead  you 
unto  the  splendor  and  the  human  joy  of  the  reconciliation. 
Go  to  him,  with  your  sacred  dead  locked  away  in  your 
bosom,  and  if  he  is  half  a  man,  he  will  revere  you  all  the 
more  because  one  loyal  thought  still  clings  to  that  mould 
ering  memory  upon  some  battle-field  in  Tennessee. 

The  prospect  of  a  separation  from  Eleanor  left  her  brother 
in  the  depression  of  utter  loneliness.  He  walked  out  of  the 
house,  across  the  lawn,  and  into  the  next  field.  Chap  was 
there,  under  a  chestnut  tree,  searching  for  the  nuts,  as  the 
last  night's  frost  had  opened  the  burrs. 


FATHER  AND   SON  367 

"  Come  here,  Chap,"  the  father  called. 

The  little  fellow  came,  munching  his  last  find. 

"  Come  take  a  walk  with  me,  son."  The  boy  was  his 
last  comrade  for  the  coming  solitude. 

"  Crickety,  Dad,  look  at  them,"  he  said,  showing  a 
pocketful  of  plump  brown  nuts. 

The  father's  thoughts  were  fixed  on  other  things. 

"  I've  got  bad  news  for  you,  Randall."  He  walked  sev 
eral  paces.  "  We've  got  to  give  up  the  Hall." 

"  Where  are  we  going  to  ?  "  asked  the  boy,  in  surprise. 

"  I  don't  know  yet ;  at  least,  I  haven't  made  any  definite 
arrangements." 

"  Can  we  take  Spark  and  Starbright  ?  "  Spark  was  a  col 
lie,  and  Starbright  was  the  carriage  horse. 

"  We  can  take  Spark,  but  not  Starbright ;  we  shall  have 
to  sell  him." 

The  boy  was  very  sober  for  an  instant. 

"  What  have  we  got  to  go  for  ?  Have  we  run  to  seed, 
Dad,  as  they  said  old  Patchen's  people  did  when  they  sold 
him  out?" 

The  father  started,  stung  by  the  phrase  of  the  innocent 
child.  "  Run  to  seed  "  was  applied  usually  to  poor  whites 
when  the  sheriff  broke  up  their  households  for  debts. 

"  Well,  Chap,  we  have  become  poor,"  replied  Bourland. 
"  We  used  to  be  very  rich,  very  rich  ;  but  the  war  ruined 
us." 

He  led  the  boy  up  to  the  summit  of  a  hill  that  surveyed 
long  ranges  of  the  country,  and  he  began  to  point  out 
landmarks. 

"  Look  over  there,  son.  Do  you  see  that  field  to  the 
south  where  the  corn  is  shocked  at  the  foot  of  the  big  hill  ? 
Now  run  your  eyes  down  along  the  stream  on  the  far  side 
of  it,  down  past  those  poplars  to  the  Lacamac,  then  up 
along  the  creek,  two  miles  and  a  half,  past  the  bridge  to 
the  mill ;  there  it  is,  with  the  roof  blown  off.  Now  follow 
that  edge  of  woods  up  along  the  slope,  up  the  other  side  of 
Trymier's  place,  through  that  hollow  —  don't  you  remem 
ber  where  we  go  for  huckleberries  ?  —  then  up  to  the  top  of 
this  hill  behind  the  Hall.  It's  a  nice  piece  of  land,  isn't  it?  " 


368  HENKY   BOURLAND 

"  I  should  say  so." 

"  Well,  boy,  all  that  land  once  belonged  to  my  father, 
and  to  me.  It  would  have  been  all  yours,  if  it  hadn't  been 
for  the  war." 

"  Jiminy  Jinks  !  "  said  the  boy,  lacking  fit  expression  for 
wonder  at  the  thought  of  that  immense  proprietorship. 
"  How  much  of  it  have  we  got  now?  " 

"  Not  an  acre,  my  son." 

It  was  gone,  all  gone ;  as  irrevocable  as  the  lost  Atlantis 
sunk  in  the  depths  of  the  sea. 

"  When  I  was  your  age,"  the  father  continued,  "  those 
shanties  and  cabins  which  you  see  all  over  the  estate,  they 
weren't  built.  They  are  small  farms  now  and  nigger  patches. 
In  those  days  there  weren't  so  many  fences ;  you  could 
gallop  a  horse  anywhere  you  wanted  to,  and  start  up  foxes 
in  lots  of  places.  We  had  about  two  hundred  slaves  then, 
and  over  that,  perhaps." 

"  Where  are  they  all  gone  to  ?  "  asked  the  boy. 

"  God  knows,  Chap.  They  got  their  freedom  when  the 
Yankees  came,  and  off  they  went,  all  but  a  few." 

The  picture  of  the  old  days  revived  in  his  memory  like 
a  palimpsest,  and  the  fields  were  repeopled  with  the  old 
faces  and  swarthy  forms.  The  squads  of  negroes,  sweat 
ing  in  the  sun  ;  the  shouts  of  reaper  and  binder ;  the  pitch 
ing  and  the  laying  of  sheaves ;  the  slow  motion  of  the  carts  ; 
the  overseer  in  the  shade  of  the  tree ;  and  all  the  livelong 
day,  in  field,  about  cabin,  around  the  Hall,  the  swarm  and 
scamper  and  play  of  the  kinky-headed  pickaninnies ;  and 
at  night  the  horn  calling  the  workers  to  supper,  to  the  long 
twilight  frolic,  the  music,  and  the  dance. 

"  For  I'll  take  my  ole  banjo, 
An'  I'll  sing  a  lit'l  song, 
Way  down  in  my  ole  cabin  home." 

Where  are  they  now  ?  Ask  the  question  again,  Little 
Chap  !  They  are  scattered  over  the  earth  ;  gone  forth  like 
the  sons  of  Ishmael ;  gone  forth  to  freedom,  to  greater  in 
dependence,  to  greater  opportunities  for  selfhood  ;  gone 
forth  into  a  greater  world  of  sin  and  temptation ;  but  in 


FATHER   AND   SON  369 

the  going  they  left  something  behind  —  the  discipline  of 
industry;  and,  more  than  that,  the  graces  of  sentiment 
and  gentility  which  it  will  take  their  children  centuries  to 
regain. 

Yes,  they  had  gone  ;  and  all  that  was  left  to  tell  the 
history  of  the  lost  civilization  was  that  old  weather-beaten 
Hall,  standing  upon  its  ledge  of  rock,  and,  looking  mourn 
fully  down  upon  it,  the  landless  master,  about  to  say  fare 
well. 

"  You  came  too  late,  boy,  for  those  good  old  days,"  con 
tinued  the  father,  his  attention  fixed  more  upon  the  things 
within  the  mind  than  upon  those  without.  "  We  were  an 
agricultural  people,  and  Virginia  was  one  blooming  gar 
den.  I  suppose  we  shall  have  to  take  to  trade  now,  like 
the  Yankees,  or  dig  up  the  minerals  out  of  the  bowels  of 
the  earth.  I  couldn't  do  that.  I  wasn't  fitted  for  it.  I 
wanted  to  follow  the  honorable  profession  of  my  father. 
But  the  days  of  the  planter  are  gone,  and  the  old  South 
has  gone  with  them.  You  will  grow  up,  my  boy,  with  the 
new  era ;  there  are  signs  of  its  coming.  And  you'll  have 
to  make  your  own  way  ;  I  haven't  anything  to  leave  you. 
But  you  won't  reproach  your  old  dad,  will  you  ?  " 

His  tone  was  pleading,  as  if  he  feared  the  boy's  condem 
nation  ;  as  if  he  thought  he  had  done  something  shameful, 
like  robbing  a  child  of  his  birthright. 

Chap  appeared  somewhat  bewildered  by  his  father's 
mood.  He  knew  not  what  to  say,  but  under  the  impulse 
of  filial  instinct,  knowing  that  his  father  was  in  pain,  he 
took  hold  of  his  hand  and  kissed  it. 

Another  mood  came  over  the  dejected  man. 

"  One  thing  more,  son.  Remember  this  morning  as  long 
as  you  live.  Look  down  there  at  the  dear  old  home,  and 
when  you  think  of  it  as  a  man,  don't  forget  that  your  father 
fought  and  offered  his  life  for  it,  and  for  the  ideas  which 
built  it.  The  Yankees  called  us  rebels  and  traitors  for 
doing  so." 

He  paused,  and  broke  out  a  moment  later  with  an  un 
usual  fierceness.  "  Don't  let  any  man  ever  call  your  father 
a  traitor  !  Drive  the  lie  back  into  his  throat,  son  I  "  It  was 

2B 


370  HENRY   BOURLAND 

a  passing  fury,  induced  by  the  recollection  of  the  bitter, 
humiliating  days  of  the  reconstruction  —  the  last  cry  of  an 
impotent  lion  given  to  his  cub. 

"  Perhaps,"  he  went  on  in  gentler  voice,  "  by  the  time 
you  are  a  man,  they  will  stop  all  that.  Perhaps  the 
Yankees  may  see  that  we  weren't  traitors  after  all  — 
only  men  fighting  for  a  principle  that  was  our  heritage. 
When  a  Yankee  meets  you  on  that  ground,  take  his  hand, 
Chap ;  and  if  the  time  comes,  help  him  defend  the  flag,  for 
I  suppose  it  must  be  our  flag  now.  It  was  your  mother's 
flag,  anyway." 

For  some  inexplicable  reason,  Chap  began  to  cry.  Per 
haps  the  unusual  passion  of  his  father  was  too  incompre 
hensible,  too  fierce,  for  the  tender  nature  of  the  child.  He 
began  to  cry  so  bitterly  that  his  tears  almost  became  con 
tagious  ;  for  Bourland  was  ready  to  weep  like  a  Homeric 
hero. 

He  picked  the  child  up  and  pacified  him,  and,  seating 
him  upon  his  shoulder,  he  walked  down  the  hill. 

It  is  a  galling  thing,  when  one  has  been  born  to  wealth 
and  privilege,  to  find  oneself,  at  forty,  without  place  in  the 
world,  without  aim,  with  nothing  but  the  things  a  beggar 
can  call  his  own. 


CHAPTER   XL VII 

THE   LAW   OF   GRAVITY 

IT  was  a  bracing  October  afternoon.  The  autumn  haze 
filtered  slowly  through  the  atmosphere ;  the  breezes 
brought  the  crisp  aroma  of  spices ;  in  dazzling  brilliance, 
a  mantle  of  many  colors  lay  spread  over  field  and  hill. 

Bourland  and  Elsie  had  started  to  climb  Bald  Pate,  a 
neighboring  mountain  which  dominated  several  counties. 
As  it  was  some  miles  distant,  they  galloped  on  horseback 
over  to  its  base,  then  left  the  horses  at  a  farm-house,  and 
began  the  ascent  on  foot. 

Eleanor  had  remained  at  home.  "  She  had  some  mend 
ing  to  do,"  she  said,  which  meant  that  a  modest  trousseau 
was  in  preparation. 

The  change  of  light  and  temperature,  as  the  mountain 
climbers  passed  out  of  the  open  into  the  wooded  slope, 
gave  to  Bourland  an  impression,  vaguely  defined,  that 
they  were  crossing  a  boundary,  that  they  were  leaving  the 
world  of  civilization  behind  them,  and  were  venturing  into 
some  primeval  lair. 

At  first  they  broke  the  peace  of  that  solitude  with  their 
talk,  but  when  the  path  began  to  wind  upward  with  steeper 
pitch,  they  grew  more  thoughtful,  and  came  under  the 
spell  of  the  ancient  silence  which  intensifies  the  solemnity 
and  mystery  of  a  forest. 

Halting,  Elsie  plucked  a  cluster  of  scarlet  ash  berries,  and 
put  it  in  his  buttonhole. 

"  A  sprig  of  rowan  is  a  charm  against  evil  spirits,"  she 
remarked,  adding,  while  he  stopped  to  take  the  decora 
tion,  "  when  I  get  into  the  deep  woods  I  always  feel  things 
prowling  around." 

371 


372  HENRY   BOUELAND 

The  air  had  the  tang  of  loam  and  moss  and  decaying 
bark,  and  it  etched  its  way  into  his  lungs  with  acrid  bitings. 
He  was  exhilarated  by  the  play  of  his  physical  forces, 
the  swifter,  warmer  coursing  of  the  blood,  the  alternate 
change  from  strain  to  relaxation,  as  they  climbed  the 
pitches  and  paused  to  take  rest.  The  use  of  his  muscles 
gave  him  the  full  sense  of  animal  strength  and  the  relief 
of  expended  energy.  He  was  a  happy  animal.  He  wanted 
to  run,  jump,  leap,  for  the  mere  delight  of  exertion. 

They  passed  a  pool ;  a  desire  came  to  him  to  plunge  into 
its  chill  waters.  A  squirrel  looked  down  from  a  tree 
bough;  he  wanted  to  climb  and  chase  it.  A  footbridge 
led  the  path  over  a  brook ;  he  jumped  over  the  gulley  of 
its  bed.  A  boulder  rested  upon  the  edge  of  a  rock ;  he 
pushed  it  over,  and  as  it  ripped  its  way  madly  down  the 
mountain  side,  he  was  seized  with  a  wild  desire  to  rush 
after  it,  overtake  it,  and  stop  its  motion. 

Temporarily  he  had  retrograded  into  the  condition  of 
primitive  man.  The  aboriginal  instincts,  checked,  sup 
pressed,  by  the  discipline  and  decorum  of  civilization, 
awoke  again  and  broke  loose  into  the  lawless  passions  of 
the  woodlanders,  those  progenitors  of  the  race,  wild  and 
free  in  their  ancient,  limitless  expanses  of  forest  and  plain. 

His  imagination  became  inflamed.  He  pictured  himself, 
escaped  from  convention,  society,  the  restraints  of  law  ;  he 
saw  himself  a  savage,  in  the  zest  of  the  chase  by  day, 
bounding  over  rock  and  field,  and  at  night  returning, 
under  the  mysterious  evening  star,  in  the  fearful  twilight, 
to  the  bright  yellow  warmth  of  his  hut ;  he  felt  the  brawny 
embrace  of  his  mate  ;  and  afterward  the  dull  weariness, 
and  the  deep,  dead  slumber. 

This  delirium  was  all  a  mere  matter  of  brain-sick  psychol 
ogy  ;  actually,  while  it  was  going  on,  he  was  tramping  up 
the  slope  of  a  mountain  beside  a  lady,  helping  her  deferen 
tially  over  the  rough  places,  and  prattling  of  a  hundred 
trifles. 

Elsie,  after  the  summer  spent  in  the  open  air,  had  re 
gained  that  fulness,  that  exuberance  of  being  which  she 
had  lost  in  the  close  atmosphere  of  her  cloister.  To-day 


THE   LAW  OF  GRAVITY  373 

she  tripped  along  the  level  stretches  like  a  schoolgirl. 
Several  times  she  ran  ahead  of  him,  and  waited,  all  aglow, 
for  him  to  overtake  her.  Once  they  raced. 

"  You  seem  very  different  this  afternoon,"  she  remarked, 
as  they  stopped  to  recover  breath.  "  Of  late  you  have  been 
to  me  like  a  man  in  armor ;  a  real  man  inside,  but  an  iron 
shell  all  about  you." 

"  I  feel  young  again,"  he  said,  breathing  heavily.  "  If  I 
had  an  axe  here,  I'd  like  to  cut  down  some  of  these  trees." 

"  I  don't  want  to  be  young  again,"  she  said  dreamily. 
"  I  wish  I  were  old,  wrinkled,  white-haired." 

"Why  so?" 

"  Why  ?  "  she  answered,  turning  her  face,  "  why,  when 
you  are  old,  you  are  no  longer  plagued  with  vain  desires. 
It's  all  over  then.  You've  got  everything  behind  you,  and 
nothing  to  expect." 

She  had  indeed  left  her  girlhood  behind  ;  at  least  she  had 
lost  those  frail,  fragile  charms  which  fire  a  young  man 
with  romantic  ardor.  But  yet  something  about  her,  some 
thing  unfed,  something  unfulfilled,  something  suggesting 
a  survival  of  youth,  kept  her  still  youthful.  It  was  a  tem 
pered  pathos  which  gave  her  an  appealing  beauty  of  her 
own,  possible  only  after  the  flight  and  discipline  of  disap 
pointing  years. 

"  Do  you  want  to  grow  old,  really  ?  "  He  stood  close, 
facing  her.  "  I  have  never  put  you  and  age  together  in  my 
thoughts." 

Her  look  was  brightened  with  glad  satisfaction. 

He  reached  out  both  hands,  brushed  back  the  stray  hairs 
from  her  forehead,  and  looked  into  the  wistful  eyes.  Did 
his  guess,  he  wondered,  enable  him  to  penetrate  into  the 
secret  treasury  of  her  unuttered  meditations  ?  He  saw,  at 
any  rate,  either  in  his  own  thought  or  in  hers,  a  solitary 
chapel,  dim  with  the  suffusion  of  light  through  richly  stained 
windows ;  a  form  bent  apparently  in  prayer,  with  face  pale, 
dry,  withered ;  thin  lips,  which,  while  the  inattentive  mind 
prayed,  murmured  reproachfully,  "  He  might  have  given 
me  life." 

She  did  not  evade  the  touch  of  his  hands  upon  her  fore- 


374  HENEY   BOURLAND 

head ;  she  stood,  impassive,  with  her  own  hand*  clasped 
behind  her,  as  he  looked  into  her  face. 

"  A  book  of  verses  underneath  the  bough, 
A  jug  of  wine,  a  loaf  of  bread,  and  Thou 
Beside  me,  singing  in  the  wilderness,  — 
Oh !  wilderness  were  paradise  enow." 

No  one  had  spoken ;  but  which  of  them  had  harbored  the 
thought,  or  both  ? 

Within  himself  the  soul  of  the  primitive  man  stirred 
again,  became  restive,  clamorous.  "Take  her,  take  her, 
and  carry  her  off,  as  we  did  in  the  heroic  days,  when  men 
desired  and  dared" 

He  felt  the  impulse,  strong,  almost  irresistible,  to  seize 
her,  and  weld  her  forever  into  his  own  being.  But  the 
hesitation  which  comes  to  a  man  as  he  reflects  before  he 
plunges  into  moral  darkness,  before  he  stifles  the  voice  of 
conscience,  before  he  flees  from  friends  and  overleaps  the 
barrier  which  civilization  has  built  about  itself  like  a  pro 
tecting  wall,  this  hesitation  —  is  it  cowardice  or  courage 
—  held  him  irresolute. 

"  Come,"  he  said  at  last,  "  we  haven't  reached  the  top 
yet.  We  must  go  on." 

He  took  her  hand  and  drew  her  arm  under  his  own.  In 
the  closeness  and  the  pressure  he  could  feel  her  heart  beat 
ing  violently  (the  last  climb  had  been  a  severe  one) ;  but 
she  did  not  withdraw  her  hand  from  his  until  they  had 
gone  at  least  a  hundred  paces. 

They  reached  the  top  at  last,  an  open  space  of  flat  rock, 
and  beheld  the  treasuries  of  autumn  color,  spread  out  at 
their  feet  in  the  world  below.  Gold,  gold,  gold,  an  ocean's 
bed  of  it,  as  far  as  eye  could  reach,  except  where  patches 
and  streaks  on  the  hillsides  were  stained  to  crimson  or 
retained  their  evergreen.  To  the  east,  there  was  a  steady 
decline  into  a  plain  that  crept  at  last  under  the  half  circle 
of  haze  as  under  a  curtain ;  to  the  west,  a  sheer  cliff  dropped 
into  the  valley  below ;  beyond,  undulations  fell  and  rose 
and  climbed  upon  the  broken  backs  of  the  foot-hills  that 
were  shut  in  and  watched  by  the  Blue  Ridge,  shimmering 


THE  LAW  OF   GRAVITY  375 

now  in  the  distance  like  a  Miltonic  wall  of  brass ;  over 
head,  an  inverted  sea  of  sapphire,  unplumbed  by  the  eye, 
the  glass,  the  thought  of  man,  the  infinite  reach  and  depth 
of  ether  through  which  swam  the  procession  of  invisible 
worlds  like  a  drifting  of  motes. 

Both  stood  searching  the  landscape,  as  mariners  scan  the 
sea  for  a  sail. 

"  There  it  is,"  said  Elsie,  pointing  downward. 

A  mere  speck,  almost  hidden  by  trees ;  something 
diminutive,  something  in  miniature ;  a  child's  toy  house, 
it  seemed,  from  that  height;  yet  something  for  which  a 
man  had  offered  his  life  ;  the  symbol  of  a  civilization  whose 
funeral  rites  had  demanded  a  million  lives. 

"It  looks  very  small  from  here,  doesn't  it?"  said  Bour- 
land,  as  if  from  this  exalted  point  of  view  it  were,  after  all, 
an  insignificant  thing,  a  doll's  house,  not  worth  fighting 
for.  There  were  a  hundred  others  scattered  around  it,  and 
to  the  eye,  from  this  altitude,  it  could  hardly  be  distin 
guished  for  size  or  excellence  from  the  rest. 

He  stood  there,  gazing  questioningly  over  the  cliff  at 
the  Hall  below.  All  his  former  life  seemed  shrunken  to 
the  measure  of  that  insignificant  object  —  a  mere  molehill 
in  the  landscape.  The  voices  of  his  remote  ancestors,  those 
prehistoric  ancestors  of  the  lawless  woods,  were  crying  to 
him  in  a  strangely  modern  tongue :  "  Ah !  love  is  at  your 
side.  Take  love.  The  rest  is  vanity." 

And  she,  gazing  out  toward  those  western  mountains, 
into  the  shining  splendor  of  the  sun  above  them,  out  into 
the  El  Dorado  of  unburned  passion  beyond  them,  was  sitting 
upon  a  melancholy  stone. 

Soon  afterward  they  began  the  descent,  realizing  that 
their  last  day  of  joy  together  was  drawing  to  a  close.  They 
had  breathed  the  odor  of  the  blown  rose  of  life,  but  had  not 
plucked  the  flower.  The  hands  of  their  gentility  were 
not  sufficiently  rough  and  callous  to  tear  it,  so  full  of 
thorns  from  the  stem. 

Down  they  ran,  down,  down  the  paths ;  thoughtlessly, 
merrily,  recklessly,  with  wild  dash  and  trip  and  go,  like 
sprites  amid  Nature's  solitude  and  soul-stirring  silences. 


376  HENRY  BOURLAND 

At  one  point,  halfway  down,  a  rock  jutted  into  the  path, 
and  a  steep,  slippery  face  led  to  the  bottom.  He  went 
ahead  and  waited  below,  while  she,  timid,  began  the  descent 
cautiously.  Suddenly  her  foot  slipped ;  she  lost  control  of 
her  motion.  Downward  she  came,  faster  and  faster,  her 
only  safety  in  forward  movement ;  down,  down  she  came, 
with  danger  at  the  end,  in  a  helpless  endeavor  to  stop  and 
stand  erect. 

"  Catch  me,  Henry  !  "  she  cried  in  fright. 

Nature's  blind  law  of  gravity  flung  her  into  his  arms. 
He  caught  her,  saved  her,  held  her  fast. 

Run,  Paris !  Run  !  Destiny  has  cast  your  Helen  into 
your  desiring  embrace.  Think  not  now  to  tarry  and  con 
sider  the  why,  the  wherefore,  or  the  consequence.  The 
prize  is  yours  by  right  of  possession.  Take  her  and  run, 
though  Troy  town  should  burn  and  fall  in  retribution. 

It  was  Nature's  voice  amid  the  free  play  of  her  forces. 

He  had  picked  her  up  easily,  and,  seized  by  a  sudden 
impulse  that  came  over  him  like  a  flood  and  mastered  his 
motion,  he  ran  down  the  sloping  path.  He  strained  her 
to  him  with  the  ravenous  greed  of  a  cannibal ;  and  she,  in 
her  fright,  had  flung  her  arms  about  him,  and  now,  in  a 
tense  circle,  they  were  riveted  around  his  neck.  He  felt 
the  delicious  graze  of  her  lips  against  his  forehead;  her 
warm  breath  breathing  a  terrified  surrender  into  his  eyes. 
He  was  energized  into  a  Titan;  the  access  of  emotion 
gave  him  the  strength  of  ten.  He  ran  on,  bearing  her 
without  fatigue. 

The  sweep  of  the  flood,  before  it  let  them  escape  from 
its  resistless  impetus,  bore  them  to  the  foot  of  a  rock 
covered  with  moss. 

"Where  are  we  now?"  she  cried,  once  more  becoming 
aware  that  there  was  a  world  outside  of  themselves. 
"  Where  are  we  ?  "  She  spoke  as  one  lost  in  the  darkness, 
with  no  sense  of  direction. 

"You  are  safe,"  he  replied.  He  had  not  yet  released 
his  hold  of  her. 

"I  was  falling,  and  you  saved  me.  Oh!  how  strong 
and  good  you  are,  dearest."  She  was  still  under  the  stress 


THE  LAW   OF  GRAVITY  377 

of  the  emotion.  In  her  gratitude,  surrender,  love,  what 
ever  it  was,  she  threw  her  arms  about  his  neck,  drew  him 
down,  kissed  him  on  the  lips,  the  cheeks,  the  eyes,  the 
lips  again  until  he  was  blinded,  and  his  flesh  burned  with 
many  flames.  He  gathered  her  in  closer  to  himself. 

At  length  the  joy  became  too  great  for  her.  She  began 
to  sob,  and  when  he  opened  his  eyes  arid  looked  into  her 
face,  it  was  an  irresistible  vision.  Her  love,  long-tortured 
and  denied,  was  now  clinging  tenaciously  to  its  object. 

"  Oh !  it  was  worth  the  long  waiting  for,"  she  mur 
mured,  unwilling  to  escape  from  the  bondage  of  his  arms. 

Her  hair  had  become  loosened.  He  gathered  its  long 
strands,  and  drew  them  across  her  face,  as  if  he  would 
veil  those  eyes,  those  lips,  those  cheeks,  and  he  kissed 
them,  in  turn  and  again,  through  the  delicate  mesh. 

She  took  the  touches  with  absolute  resignation,  quiver 
ing  under  the  ecstasy  of  each  kiss. 

"  What  a  glorious  revelation  it  has  been  !  It  was  some 
thing  greater  than  ourselves,"  he  whispered. 

"  I  am  all  yours  now.  Every  portion  of  my  being,"  she 
answered.  "  I  wish  I  had  been  better  in  the  past  so  that 
I  might  be  more  worthy.  Punish  me,  Henry  ;  make  me  do 
any  penance ;  but  love  me,  only  love  me.  Your  love 
makes  me  feel  complete  at  last."  Again  she  put  her 
hands  behind  her  in  sign  of  full  surrender. 

Her  love  !  What  a  strange  passion  it  had  been !  Often, 
through  the  lapses  of  time,  she  had  forgotten  him ;  yet  it 
returned  again  and  again,  with  the  strength  and  cry  of  a 
deathless  need.  During  the  long  absence  it  had  burned, 
at  times,  as  hate,  yet  none  the  less  passionate  love.  And 
when,  after  the  separation,  it  came  again  into  his  presence 
and  companionship,  it  became  calmer,  timid,  mute.  And 
now,  now  that  its  object  was  won,  however  late  the 
winning,  it  had  become  refined,  tempered  with  feminine 
resignation  and  sweetness.  It  meant  so  much  to  her 
that,  womanlike,  she  forgot  all  other  claims  in  the  joy  of 
its  possession. 

His  love !  Had  he  ever  really,  truly  loved  her  during 
these  last  years  ?  If  so,  it  was  as  a  creature  low  in  the 


378  HENEY  BOUELAND 

scale  of  lovers ;  a  creature  with  an  earthly  need,  giving  it 
a  place  among  other  demands ;  inferior  in  attraction  to 
other  allurements  in  a  man's  career.  But  now,  now  that 
the  career  was  closed,  now  that  he  was  left,  single-handed, 
without  aim,  —  now  that  her  own  love  was  giving  an 
exaltation  to  his  own !  —  could  he  now  bow  down  before 
the  shrine  of  the  supersensuous  deity  of  love  ? 

The  twilight  was  coming  down,  for  they  had  delayed 
long.  They  made  motion  to  resume  the  return  home. 
She  began  to  twist  her  hair  to  put  it  again  in  coil,  but  he 
stopped  her. 

"  Let  it  hang  free  till  we  get  to  the  farm-house ;  it 
makes  you  look  so  much  like  a  young  girl  I  used  to  know, 
Elsie  Vinton." 

She  obeyed  without  protest. 

But  the  name,  her  maiden  name,  jarred  on  the  thoughts 
of  both;  for  it  reminded  them  with  bitter  truthfulness 
that  it  was  no  longer  her  name,  and  that  she  no  longer 
possessed  the  maiden's  freedom  and  privilege. 

They  reached  the  farm-house,  mounted  their  horses,  and 
rode  homeward. 

But  it  was  a  grewsome  ride.  Each  was  left  alone  to 
commune  with  self,  —  to  see  the  incidents  of  the  after 
noon  under  the  grim  scrutiny  of  reflection,  and  in  the 
drenched  intoxication  of  a  horrible  awakening.  Each 
began  to  realize  what  must  be  faced,  dared,  broken,  if  they 
were  to  follow  the  reckless  leading  of  that  passion.  All  the 
afternoon  everything  had  been  tinged,  distorted,  intensi 
fied,  by  the  glamour  of  their  own  emotions.  The  jolting 
gallop,  as  they  rode  apart  from  each  other's  touch  and 
thrill,  dispelled  that  glamour,  quenched  the  light,  and 
brought  them  back  into  colorless,  disenchanting  reality. 

"  Think  everything  over,  dearest,  and  decide  what  we 
shall  do.  I  will  obey  your  will,"  she  whispered,  after 
they  had  dismounted  at  the  Hall.  She  kissed  him  again  in 
the  darkness,  and  then  both  passed  out  of  the  world  of 
love's  incantation  into  the  house. 


CHAPTER   XLVIII 

THE   VIGIL   OF   THE   CAVALIER 

FOR  the  first  time  in  his  life  Bourland  experienced  a 
reluctance,  a  chill  fear,  to  enter  his  own  home.  It  seemed 
like  a  strange  house  to  him. 

He  had  some  of  the  sensations  of  a  sneak  thief.  He 
was  carrying  into  it  something  which  would  infect  the 
atmosphere,  alienate  the  sister,  poison  the  innocence  of 
the  child,  and  exorcise,  with  diabolic  power,  the  spirit 
which  had  dwelt  in  that  place  and  had  made  it  a  temple 
of  domestic  purity. 

Hide  it,  master  of  the  Hall !  Hide  it  from  the  sister, 
from  the  little  boy  who  knows  not  yet  its  meaning !  Hide 
it  from  the  stern-faced  portraits  on  the  wall !  Hide  it, 
if  you  can,  from  the  all-seeing,  invisible  Eye  ! 

And  yet  his  physical  being,  all  tingling  as  with  electric 
charges,  was  an  incarnate  ecstasy. 

Supper  was  waiting.  He  was  voraciously  hungry,  and 
he  sat  down  to  the  table  with  a  lionlike  desire  to  tear 
flesh.  He  wanted  no  dainties  that  night. 

"  You  must  have  had  a  hard  tramp,"  said  Eleanor,  pour 
ing  out  the  coffee.  "You  look  all  flushed,  Elsie." 

"  Oh,  that  comes  from  the  way  we  raced  down,"  she 
replied  with  languid  ease.  "We  stayed  so  long  on  top 
that  when  we  came  back,  we  rushed  down  like  rolling 
stones.  We  didn't  stop  once,  did  we,  Henry  ?  " 

She  looked  toward  him  with  unconcern  to  confirm  the 
half  truth. 

He  was  not  schooled  in  deception.  He  took  refuge  in  a 
reservation. 

"  We  did  make  pretty  quick  time ;  faster  than  when  we 
went  up,  by  a  good  deal."  He  attempted  to  smile. 

"Oh,  give  me  some  more  of   those  preserved   plums," 

379 


380  HENRY   BOUKLAND 

cried  Elsie.  "  The  thought  of  them  will  make  my  mouth 
water  when  I  get  back  to  fast  days.  Can't  you  let  me 
smuggle  a  few  cups  of  them  into  my  trunk,  when  I  go 
back  to  the  convent?" 

"Are  you  still  resolved  to  go  back  and  take  the  vows?" 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  without  the  slightest  hesitation  or 
change  of  color. 

The  ease  of  her  acting  amazed  Bouiiand,  who  sat  en 
grossed,  but  only  apparently,  with  his  food.  He  admired 
her  nonchalance,  and  her  self-possession.  To  himself  he 
seemed  as  tremulous  as  quicksilver.  But  this  ease  of  her 
acting  brought  back  that  old  distrust  of  her  character. 
She  was  playing  a  part  beautifully,  but  what  of  the  woman 
behind  the  r61e  ? 

"  Oh !  the  moon  has  come  up  !  "  called  Elsie,  after  sup 
per,  from  the  front  door.  "  Come  here,  Henry." 

"  Come,  let  us  take  a  little  walk,"  she  begged.  "  It  is 
hot  here  in  the  house." 

He  followed  her  down  the  steps  into  the  partial  obscurity 
and  umbrage  of  the  lawn. 

She  wanted  to  make  an  apology. 

"It  wasn't  quite  right,  Henry,  I  know,  to  say  those 
things.  It  seemed  like  cowardice  and  disloyalty  to  you." 
Her  hand  caught  his.  "  But  we  mustn't  let  Eleanor  sus 
pect  anything,  at  least,  not  until  after  her  marriage.  We 
don't  want  to  spoil  her  pleasure.  So  we  must  keep  our 
secret  all  to  ourselves  for  a  while.  It  will  be  hard  for  me 
to  do  it.  I  am  so  happy,  so  very  happy,  dearest."  She 
nestled  closer  to  him,  content  in  the  security  of  his  protec 
tion,  and  he,  still  under  the  spell  of  the  afternoon,  drew 
her  and  held  her  in  the  tension  of  his  embrace. 

"  Do  you  recollect  this  spot  ?  "  she  asked. 

Yes,  he  recognized  the  place  ;  here,  years  before,  they 
had  separated  in  anger.  Then  it  was  May;  she  was  a 
young  girl,  and  he  an  officer  in  a  gray  uniform.  Now  it 
was  autumn  —  the  autumn  of  the  year  and  of  their  lives,  and 
the  winter  was  close  at  hand. 

"  *  O  that  it  were  possible,  after  long  grief  and  pain, 

To  find  the  arms  of  my  true  love  around  me  once  again.'  " 


THE  VIGIL   OF   THE   CAVALIER  381 

she  murmured.  "I  have  uttered  those  lines  so  often, 
Henry,  and  now  they  have  come  true.  Tell  me,  dearest, 
why  did  you  cast  me  off  that  night  ?  I  thought  you  really 
cared  for  me  in  those  days." 

He  remembered  the  reason  distinctly.  The  romance 
of  his  nature  had  been  aroused  by  the  stimulus  of  her 
charm  and  companionableness  ;  his  vanity  had  been  flat 
tered  by  her  resignation  to  his  imperious  wishes.  He 
had  thought  of  love,  of  asking  her  to  be  his  wife.  But 
there  had  been  that  suspicion,  that  old  distrust  of  her 
personal  honor,  so  forcefully  confirmed  when  he  found  her 
furtively  reading  one  of  his  letters. 

"  It  seems  like  a  slight  thing  now.  Don't  let  us  speak 
of  it." 

"  No,"  she  answered,  "  I  have  done  many  wicked  things, 
but  I  want  to  face  my  sins.  You'll  forgive  me,  won't 
you?" 

He  really  desired  to  clear  it  from  his  mind,  for  it  had 
been  recalled  that  very  evening  by  her  equivocation  at  the 
table. 

"  Do  you  remember  a  letter  of  mine,  which  you  picked 
up  one  day  when  you  thought  I  was  not  around  ?  " 

"  Oh,"  she  cried  out,  "  was  it  that  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  answered.  "  It  was  that  more  than  anything 
else.  It  dropped  like  gall  into  a  sweet  cup." 

The  moon  was  glaring  down  upon  her  face,  lighting  it 
like  a  dark  lantern.  He  looked  at  her  fixedly.  Her 
features  were  drawn  tense  with  pain.  He  observed  that 
she  was  startled,  but  immediately  she  recovered  her  com 
posure. 

"I  didn't  read  it,"  she  cried  fiercely,  looking  him 
squarely  in  the  eyes. 

"  I  only  saw  it  in  your  hands." 

"  I  know  you  did.  I  picked  it  up.  I  was  jealous  of 
that  girl.  I  knew  she  cared  for  you.  When  I  visited 
her  once  I  saw  that  she  kept  your  letters  all  in  a  box  by 
themselves.  I  wanted  to  find  out  how  it  was  between 
you,  and  I  was  tempted  to  look.  I  took  the  letter  out  of 
the  envelope,  but  then  it  came  over  me  what  a  mean 


382  HENRY  BOURLAND 

thing  I  was  doing.  I  knew  that  you  would  despise  me 
for  it,  so  I  thrust  it  back  into  the  envelope,  and  just  then 
you  came  and  caught  me.  But  that  was  after  I  had  made 
the  decision  in  my  own  mind.  Indeed,  it  was.  Don't  you 
believe  me,  Henry  ?  " 

Who  could  refuse  to  believe  those  pleading,  persuasive 
eyes,  so  tearful  under  the  glare  of  the  pale  light  ? 

He  said  that  he  did  believe,  and  he  did,  at  that  moment. 

"  It  was  mean  and  base  for  me  to  be  tempted  even," 
she  added  in  deep  humility.  "  I  deserve  to  be  punished. 
But,  oh !  don't  you  think  the  punishment  was  too  great, 
too  cruel  ?  It  has  kept  us  apart  for  years." 

Her  words  brought  him  a  disturbing  thought.  Did  he 
regret  the  mistake?  Would  he  exchange  what  the  past 
had  held  for  any  greater  measure  of  this  present?  His 
countenance  took  on  a  strange  expression,  and  she  ob 
served  it. 

"  Kiss  me  and  forgive  me,"  she  pleaded. 

He  did  so,  and  came  again  under  the  Circean  enchant 
ment. 

"  Now  kiss  me  again ;  kiss  me  until  you  have  blotted  it 
out  of  your  mind  altogether — the  very  last  vestige  of  it." 
Her  manner  was  playfully  enticing  as  she  lifted  her  face 
upward  for  the  fulfilment. 

The  warm  lips  were  an  irresistible  magnet. 

Soon  after  they  went  into  the  house.  Before  they 
parted,  he,  now  all  enervated,  still  under  the  glow  of  the 
afternoon's  emotions,  and  intoxicated  by  her  persuasive 
tenderness,  reached  downward  for  a  good-night  pledge 
and  token ;  but  before  he  could  put  his  lips  to  the  sweet 
chalice,  he  heard  the  step  of  Eleanor  on  the  stairs.  They 
slunk  away  like  culprits  foiled  in  some  meditated  felony. 

Bearing  a  tumult  of  riotous  emotions  in  his  breast,  he 
passed  upstairs  into  his  room.  It  was  dark,  and  the  dark 
ness  was  so  peopled  with  spectral  shapes  that  he  made  a  light 
for  companionship.  The  illumination  only  increased  his 
torment.  For  it  revealed,  in  its  undisturbed  sanctity,  the 
room  of  his  dead  wife,  the  consecrated  shrine  of  love,  its 
holiest  of  holies.  There  were  the  untouched  memorials 


THE  VIGIL  OF  THE   CAVALIEB  383 

of  her  presence,  the  chiffonier  with  her  dressing-case,  her 
jewel  box,  her  half-emptied  bottles  of  fragrant  extract; 
the  side-table  on  which  lay  her  Bible,  a  volume  of  Tenny 
son,  a  copy  of  "  Kathrina  "  ;  he  could  see,  in  his  mind's  eyes, 
the  marked  pages,  the  very  words  of  the  passages.  And 
there  was  the  bed  on  which  she  had  closed  regretfully  upon 
this  world  her  love-longing  eyes  forever. 

He  became  conscious  that  the  room  was  chilly,  and  that 
his  forehead  was  damp  with  sweat. 

He  sat  down  in  a  chair;  it  was  her  chair.  He  looked 
at  the  opposite  wall  and  saw  the  Madonna  by  Murillo; 
it  was  her  picture,  brought  from  the  home  of  her  maiden 
hood.  He  picked  up  the  Bible  and  frantically  opened  it, 
hoping  to  find  at  random  a  passage  with  providential  aid. 
Ugh !  he  closed  it  with  a  snap.  It  was  the  genealogy  of 
Obed-Edom  in  the  Chronicles. 

He  began  to  undress  hastily.     He  put  out  the  light. 

He  was  very  tired ;  he  stretched  his  limbs  in  the  delicious 
comfort  of  weariness  upon  the  soft  bed  of  rest.  But  his 
heart  burned  like  a  white-hot  coal.  He  turned  over,  tried 
to  drive  out  all  thoughts  from  his  brain.  He  tried  to  sleep. 
He  rolled  and  tossed  and  writhed,  as  on  a  bed  of  thorns, 
finding  nowhere  ease.  He  tried  to  endure  his  pangs  like 
Prometheus  chained  to  the  icy  rocks  of  Caucasus.  He 
lay  there  panting,  with  closed  eyes  that  saw  —  everything. 

He  would  have  made  an  interesting  subject  for  the 
student  of  psychology  or  the  painter  of  spiritual  agony. 
Let  them  use  a  glass  of  high  power,  such  as  a  biologist 
takes  for  a  microscopic  examination  of  the  living  tissue. 
Let  them  watch  the  muscles  strain,  the  fibres  twist  and 
writhe,  the  nerve  stuff  quiver,  the  particles  of  blood  go 
slipping  with  terrified  speed  through  the  veins.  Let  them 
watch  the  breaking  up  of  the  organism,  the  disintegration 
of  the  vital  cells,  the  escape  and  loss  of  energy.  It  is  all 
a  preliminary  riot  and  struggle  in  the  collapse  of  character. 

And  yet  there  was  another  power  that  ruled  the  riot  with 
tyrannical  strength ;  a  power  that  heeded  no  admonition, 
no  restraint  of  the  will,  no  law  but  that  of  its  own  self- 
assertion  ;  a  power  that  often  lies  dormant,  but  when 


384  HENJRY   BOUKLAND 

awake  sweeps  aside  judgment  and  will  with  uncontrol 
lable  fury  —  the  blind,  fierce  animal  impulse  of  unregen- 
erate  man. 

Oh!  the  wild  joy  of  that  unforgettable  moment,  when 
Destiny  flung  her  down  the  steep  into  his  strong  arms ! 
Oh !  the  relief  to  fling  aside  all  qualms,  all  restraint ;  to 
recede  into  the  thoughtless,  heedless,  primitive  savage  of 
mere  sensations.  Oh !  the  exquisite  rapture  of  forgetting 
past,  present,  future,  disappointment,  anguish,  duty,  honor, 
shame,  responsibility,  home,  friends,  self,  forgetting  every 
thing, —  to  be  the  slave  of  passion,  exhaustless  passion, 
while  Mother  Nature  amid  that  solitude  of  rocks  and 
trees  dropped  her  autumn  silence  and  her  twilight  around 
them  like  a  concealing  cloak. 

Suddenly,  ringing  like  a  hammer  that  descends  to  beat 
flat  the  iron  upon  the  anvil,  something  resounded  in  the 
darkness.  It  seemed  to  roar  from  the  remoteness  of  space 
and  time. 

"  Thou  shalt  not !  " 

Bourland  could  see  vividly  that  stern,  indignant  revival 
ist  in  the  camp  meeting  which  he  had  once  attended  when 
a  boy.  He  could  hear  him  blazing  out  the  wrath  of  divine 
justice  upon  the  sin  and  the  sinner.  The  incident  had 
slipped  out  of  the  past  into  his  consciousness  with  such 
unexpectedness  that  he  was  suddenly  awed.  He  lay  upon 
the  bed  still,  rigid. 

The  hall  clock  struck  one. 

The  tempter  came  to  reason  away  the  superstitions  of 
childhood,  to  put  the  matter  on  a  rational  basis,  to  show 
why,  in  order  to  add  to  the  sum  of  human  happiness,  a 
man  might  love  and  possess  another  man's  wife. 

"  Consider  it  with  reason  and  common  sense.  The  hus 
band  and  wife  now  mean  nothing  to  each  other.  There 
is  no  possibility  of  a  reconciliation.  Your  love  will  fill 
up  and  complete  her  life.  Why  should  she  be  made  to 
suffer  for  her  marriage?  It  was  a  step  taken  in  the 
moment  of  despair.  She  has  already  endured  enough 
agony.  She  has  done  full  penance.  Why  shouldn't  you 
help  each  other  to  happiness?  Why  should  you  immo- 


THE   VIGIL   OF   THE   CAVALIER  385 

late  yourselves?  There  is  the  burden  of  the  proof. 
Divine  retribution  ?  Divine  fiddlesticks !  Follow  the 
philosopher  who  was  wiser  than  you.  Take  the  cash  and 
let  the  credit  go.  Don't  fear  the  rumble  of  a  distant 
drum." 

"  Thou  shalt  not !     Thou  shalt  not ! " 

The  words  of  that  old  fanatic,  the  revivalist,  had  not 
fallen  everywhere  on  stony  ground.  Years  had  passed 
since  Bourland  heard  them  as  a  boy,  and  here  they  came 
again  into  the  maturity  of  his  manhood.  He  crouched 
under  them.  He  cringed  under  them.  He  was  cowed  by 
them. 

"  You  aren't  a  man,"  the  tempter  began  again.  "  You 
haven't  any  courage.  She  has  it  all.  She  does  not  hesi 
tate  and  consider.  She  simply  puts  her  hands  in  yours 
and  says,  'Take  me  anywhere.'  She  will  follow  you 
regardless  of  everything,  will  risk  any  consequences,  even 
hell  fire.  She  is  only  a  woman,  too.  You  a  man  ?  Bah ! 
you're  a  coward." 

The  satanic  scorn  stung  him  into  the  mood  of  daring 
and  defiance.  Yes,  he  would  be  no  less  courageous  than 
she.  He  would  take  her  out  into  the  West,  the  unknown 
West,  and  begin  life  again,  as  his  ancestors  did  when  they 
first  came  to  Virginia. 

The  hall  clock  struck  two. 

He  lay  for  a  long  time  fixed  on  this  decision.  But 
later  some  queries  arose  which  shook  his  resolution  by 
breaking  the  disenchantment  as  it  had  been  broken  years 
before.  Had  Elsie  told  him  the  truth  about  that  letter? 
He  could  not  feel  certain.  Then  came  a  startling  ques 
tion,  infamously  unjust,  if  untrue.  Did  Destiny  fling  her 
down  that  steep,  or  did  she  throw  herself?  He  was 
ashamed  to  harbor  the  thought. 

But,  said  a  small  voice  within,  she  uttered  two  deliber 
ate  falsehoods  at  the  table. 

He  was  too  chivalrous,  however,  to  accuse  and  condemn 
any  woman  on  such  suspicion.     He  reverted  to  his  former 
resolution.     Besides,  the  tempter  sneered,  you  are  a  fine 
one  to  be  judge  of  her  honor.     Can  you  cast  a  stone  ? 
2c 


386  HENRY   BOURLAND 

He  made  no  plea  of  defence,  and  by  his  own  acquies 
cence  it  was  clearly  revealed  to  him  that  there  had  begun 
some  process  of  disintegration  in  his  character. 

The  clock  struck  three. 

His  brain,  by  this  time,  was  utterly  fatigued  and  inca 
pable  of  further  thinking.  From  sheer  exhaustion  he  fell 
into  a  drowse. 

The  hidden  cherishings  of  meditation,  long  stored  away 
in  memory,  now  rearranged  by  the  obscure  processes  of 
slumber  into  a  dream,  came  forth  with  the  distinctness 
of  the  lost  words  of  a  palimpsest. 

Across  his  closed  lids  there  drifted  a  procession  of 
swarming  stars  that  swept  out  of  the  void  and  into  the 
void  again.  A  faint  flush,  and  then  the  growing  light  of 
an  illumination,  which  shone  and  parted  like  a  curtain, 
revealing  a  celestial  vision.  Up  from  the  midst  of  a 
boundless  plain  there  rose  a  shining  mountain  whose  slopes 
were  mantled  with  trees,  bearing  golden  fruit,  up  to  the 
pointed  summit.  Above  it  hovered  the  Shekinah,  the 
visible  symbol  of  the  Presence,  a  canopy  of  light  which 
shed  a  radiance  upon  the  infinitude  of  the  crowd  surging 
around  the  base. 

The  faces  of  the  people  were  lifted  up  to  catch  the 
golden  rain  of  the  radiance,  and  as  it  descended  and  fell 
upon  them,  they  burst  in  the  hallelujahs  of  a  choric  song, 
while  their  eyes  glowed  with  the  joy  of  the  everlasting 
Life. 

From  all  directions,  stretching  to  the  rim  of  the  horizon, 
came  streams  of  those  recently  delivered  from  the  bonds 
of  earth  and  death.  They  ran  at  full  speed  to  join  the 
multitude  and  to  share  the  ineffable  bliss  which  came  in 
palpitating  showers  from  the  Shekinah  above. 

But  there  was  one  who  lingered  and  waited  outside  of 
the  throng  and  the  press.  She  was  clad  in  stainless  white, 
and  over  her  robe  the  loose  hair  hung  and  fell,  veiling 
her  like  a  bride.  Her  eyes  were  warm  with  beseeching 
tenderness ;  her  face  luminous  with  a  love  that  was  more 
than  love,  and  human  with  a  sorrow  that  was  more  than 
tears.  She  made  no  motion  to  press  inward,  but  remained 


THE  VIGIL   OF  THE   CAVALIEK  387 

always  on  the  edge  of  the  crowd,  watching.  And  often, 
turning  her  eyes  from  that  source  of  supreme  rapture 
above,  she  scanned  the  arrivals,  and  failing  to  see  the 
object  of  her  beloved  search,  she  inquired  of  the  stranger 
if  he  brought  her  any  news  from  the  world.  At  last  came 
one  who  spoke  sadly  something  in  the  hushed  secrecy  of 
a  whisper ;  and  when  she  heard  it,  the  light  fell  from  her 
countenance  like  a  veil.  She  dropped  upon  the  shining 
sand,  and  hid  her  face  and  wept,  while  the  glad  tumult 
of  hosannas  left  her  solitary  with  her  solitary  grief. 

Bourland  awoke  from  the  vision  and  the  dream  to  find 
the  sunlight  glinting  through  the  frosted  window  panes. 
With  the  first  clear  thought  his  mental  tortures  returned. 
Once  more  began  the  battle  of  indecision.  Finally,  in  the 
hope  that  activity  of  some  kind  would  relieve  him,  he  got 
up,  dressed  himself,  and  went  downstairs.  The  house  was 
still.  No  one  else  was  awake.  He  went  out  of  doors 
into  the  cool  air  of  the  autumn  morning.  He  wandered 
about  aimlessly  for  a  while,  until,  led  by  a  prompting,  he 
found  himself  beside  the  low  wall  which  guarded  his 
dead  in  their  irrevocable  slumber. 

He  pushed  his  way  past  the  rusty  gate.  From  a  dis 
tance  the  letters  on  the  slabs  were  no  longer  legible. 
Rain  and  weather  were  eating  away  the  last  vestiges  of 
the  inscriptions,  and  soon  even  this  last  bed  of  death 
would  pass  into  a  stranger's  hands,  and  nothing  would  be 
left  to  tell  the  tale  of  John  Bourland  and  his  line. 

The  son  paused  beside  the  slabs  that  bore  his  father's 
and  his  mother's  name ;  he  thought  of  the  stainless  purity 
of  their  wedded  lives,  of  his  own  present  shame.  Then  he 
turned  to  another  slab  just  beyond,  beneath  which  lay  the 
body  of  his  wife.  Was  that  the  last  of  her?  that  day 
when  they  lowered  her  from  his  sight;  that  day  when, 
with  eyes  that  were  blinded  by  despair,  he  could  only  hear 
the  thud  and  sprinkle  of  the  gravel  stones  upon  the  lid  of 
the  resounding  coffin ;  that  day  when  for  him  the  world 
returned  to  the  black  void  whence  it  came.  Was  that  all  ? 

He  did  not  think  so  at  that  time.  Ah,  no !  there  was 
something  more  than  that.  There  was  that  pledge  which, 


388  HENRY   BOURLAND 

in  the  agony  of  his  grief  and  in  the  devotion  of  his  love, 
he  had  graven  upon  the  marble.  The  moss  had  crept  into 
the  grooves  of  the  letters,  but  it  was  still  legible.  These 
faced  him,  the  last,  best  words  of  that  sacred  love :  — 

MARGARET  RANDALL  BOURLAND 

WIFE  OF 
HENRY  BOURLAND. 

DIED  1867 
AGED  27  YEARS. 


IN  LIFE,  IN  DEATH 

AND 

IN  LIFE  FOREVERMORE 

Bring  instruments  of  iron,  O  recreant  lover!  sledges 
and  bars,  and  break  that  slab  into  fragments.  Raze  out 
that  pledge  to  the  dead,  lest  in  the  great  day,  when  all 
men  are  called  to  their  last  reckoning,  this  stone  be 
brought  before  the  stern  Judge  and  condemn  thee. 

He  got  down  on  his  knees  and  put  his  lips  against  the 
cold  marble.  He  kissed  the  letters  reverently.  He  mur 
mured  his  wife's  name.  He  began  to  pray,  silently  at 
first,  but  in  the  end  sobs  forced  his  thought  into  audible 
words. 

uMy  wife,  forgive  me  !  Pray  God  to  forgive  me.  O 
God  !  have  mercy !  " 

He  remained  on  his  knees  for  a  long  time,  but  when  he 
arose  and  went  back  to  the  house,  his  face  was  shining 
with  unutterable  peace. 


CHAPTER  XLIX 

ABOUT   STARS   AND  METEOKS 

"  IT'S  rather  yellow  with  age,"  said  Elsie,  surveying  a 
white  satin  gown  which  Eleanor  had  just  brought  from 
the  clothes-press  —  the  costume  which  her  mother  had 
worn  to  the  bridal  altar. 

"  It  will  suit  my  complexion  all  the  better,"  responded 
Eleanor.  "  I  think  it  will  do  very  well." 

Her  hands  were  very  busy  in  those  days,  and  her 
thoughts  were  closely  linked  to  the  work  of  her  hands. 
The  trousseau,  to  be  sure,  was  not  extensive,  but  a  thou 
sand  and  one  trifles  claim  attention  before  a  wedding. 

The  ceremony  was  to  be  read  in  the  parlor,  and  then  the 
engineer  and  his  bride,  after  a  wedding  breakfast  with  a 
few  friends,  were  to  say  farewell  to  the  Hall,  and  depart 
for  a  tour  into  the  West. 

Henry  came  into  the  room  where  the  two  women  were 
sewing. 

"  Go  away,"  called  out  Eleanor  ;  "  we've  no  time  for  you. 
You'll  only  be  in  the  way." 

Elsie  gave  him  a  look  which  revoked  the  dismissal  —  a 
glance  which,  indeed,  was  a  mute  plea  for  him  to  stay. 
But  he  went  off  without  heeding  it. 

He  really  desired  to  get  away  from  her.  For  he  could 
not  come  within  the  radius  of  her  influence  without  some 
wavering  of  his  last  resolution.  He  knew  it  would  require 
all  his  strength,  and  especially  all  his  tact,  to  sever  the 
threads  which  fate  had  already  woven  about  them.  He  felt 
a  certain  duty,  a  certain  obligation,  toward  her ;  for  by  his 
own  act  he  had  begun  an  alliance  which  left  him  some 
what  entangled,  somewhat  bound. 

389 


390  HENRY   BO  URL  AND 

Two  hours  later,  while  he  was  sitting  in  the  library  read 
ing,  he  heard  some  one  moving  down  the  hallway,  hum 
ming  with  great  solemnity  that  never  wearisome  wedding 
march  by  Mendelssohn.  In  a  minute  Elsie  appeared  in 
the  doorway,  and  paused  on  the  threshold.  She  had  arrayed 
herself  in  the  bridal  dress,  and  there  she  stood,  her  face  hid 
beneath  the  white  veil. 

"  To  have  and  to  hold,  in  sickness  or  in  health,"  she 
uttered  without  a  tremor,  putting  forth  her  hand. 

Perhaps  she  expected  him  to  rise  and  play  out  the  mock 
ceremony,  or  to  come  and  lift  the  veil. 

But  he  did  not  stir  from  his  seat. 

For  a  moment  she  stood  rigid ;  then,  casting  aside  the 
gauze  that  concealed  the  play  of  the  features,  she  came  two 
steps  into  the  room,  made  a  low  courtesy  as  to  an  audience, 
and  then  assuming  the  tragic  attitude  of  Cleopatra  in  the 
great  scene  of  the  play,  she  began  to  read  the  lines,  like  an 
empress.  Before  she  had  uttered  the  first  half-dozen  sen 
tences,  Bourland  felt  the  fascination  of  the  Egyptian  queen 
and  the  power  of  the  woman  before  him. 

"  Give  me  my  robe,  put  on  my  crown  ;  I  have 
Immortal  longings  in  me.     Now  no  more 
The  juice  of  Egypt's  grape  shall  moist  this  lip. 
Yare,  yare,  good  Iras  ;  quick  !     Methinks  I  hear 
Antony  call ;  I  see  him  rouse  himself 
To  praise  my  noble  act ;  I  hear  him  mock 
The  luck  of  Caesar,  which  the  gods  give  men 
To  excuse  their  after-wrath.     Husband,  I  come. 
Now  to  that  name  my  courage  prove  my  title  I 
I  am  fire,  air ;  my  other  elements 
I  give  to  baser  life.     So,  have  you  done? 
Come,  then,  and  take  the  last  warmth  of  my  lips. 
Farewell,  kind  Charmian;  Iras,  long  farewell." 

In  the  next  lines  the  thought  of  a  possible  suggestion  of 
his  dead  wife  made  her  pause  with  indecision.  But  after 
an  instant  of  hesitation  she  dared. 

"  This  proves  me  base  : 
If  she  first  meet  the  curled  Antony, 
He'll  make  demand  of  her,  and  spend  that  kiss, 
Which  is  my  heaven  to  have." 


"Through  the  doorway  he  saw  Parker,  his  hat  on  his  head,  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  looking  at  the  family  portraits.'* 


ABOUT  STAES  AND  METEORS       391 

She  scanned  Bourland  closely ;  his  lips  were  tightened, 
but  he  gave  no  sign.  She  made  the  motion  of  applying 
the  asp  to  her  breast,  and  spoke  with  a  voice  that  was  un 
steady  with  the  inexpressible  pathos  :  — 

"  Peace,  peace  I 

Dost  thou  not  see  my  baby  at  my  breast, 
That  sucks  the  nurse  asleep  ?  " 

Bourland  made  utterances  of  admiration.  Then,  as  if 
she  heard  the  applause  of  an  audience,  she  began  again  to 
courtesy,  and  to  cast  professional  kisses,  to  right  and  left, 
after  the  manner  of  a  stage  favorite. 

"  You  ought  to  be  an  actress,"  said  Bourland,  too  deeply 
impressed  with  her  power,  and  too  vexed  with  her  flippancy, 
to  be  demonstrative. 

"  That's  what  I've  often  been  told.  I  played  Cleopatra 
once  in  private  theatricals  in  London.  Lord  Churton  offered 
to  put  me  on  the  stage." 

He  shuddered  at  that  thought.  "  I'm  glad  you  didn't 
go." 

"  I  almost  made  up  my  mind  to  try  it." 

He  gave  her  a  horrified  rebuke. 

"  You  great  big  goose,"  she  cried,  with  a  grimace,  and, 
turning,  ran  upstairs. 

In  the  afternoon  he  rode  down  to  Brayton  to  make  in 
quiries  about  the  coming  public  sale  of  the  Hall.  No  men 
had  as  yet  signified  their  intention  of  bidding  for  it,  and  it 
was  commonly  supposed  that  Parker  would  buy  it,  to  pro 
tect  his  mortgage,  if  for  no  other  reason. 

So  then  at  last  Parker  had  got  him  where  he  could  enjoy 
the  vindictive  pleasure  of  evicting  his  rival  from  his  home. 
The  mere  idea  of  the  vengeance  gave  Bourland  no  pang ; 
he  felt  little  virulence  against  Parker  personally,  because 
he  had  always  regarded  him  as  a  person  of  an  inferior  order 
of  being.  The  real  pangs  came  from  the  loss  of  the  Hall 
itself,  and  the  humiliation  and  the  sense  of  incapability. 

Late  in  the  afternoon,  when  he  returned,  the  atmosphere, 
deep  in  the  west,  was  lucid  amber.  As  he  went  up  the 
steps,  he  caught  the  sound  of  Elsie's  voice,  singing  at  the 


392  HENRY  BOUKLAND 

piano.  It  was  a  song  of  intense  possibilities,  and  Bourland, 
as  he  listened,  felt  his  own  passion  stir  again  within,  as  if 
about  to  conquer  him  once  more.  The  song  was  that  famous 
love  lyric  by  Ben  Jonson,  the  one  which  everybody  knows, 
but  which  few  can  sing  with  more  than  a  tithe  of  its  latent 
fervor.  It  might  have  been  a  fitting  swan  song  for  Shake 
speare's  passionate  Egyptian. 

"  Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes, 
And  I  will  pledge  with  mine. 
Or  leave  a  kiss  but  in  the  cup, 
And  I'll  not  look  for  wine. 
The  thirst  that  from  the  soul  doth  rise, 
Doth  ask  a  drink  divine  ; 
But  could  I  of  Jove's  nectar  sup, 
I  would  not  change  for  thine." 

Her  voice  made  the  very  strings  of  the  instrument  ring 
an  echo  to  delirious  emotion. 

Ah  !  that  cup  !  She  was  holding  it  out  for  him  to  drink. 
He  could  catch  the  fumes,  rising  with  fragrance,  bewilder 
ing  the  brain  like  a  narcotic.  He  stood  on  the  veranda, 
leaning  against  one  of  the  massive  columns  for  support. 

She  ended  the  lyric  with  a  thump  upon  the  keys,  and 
before  the  last  notes  had  died  away  she  ran  her  fingers 
deftly  up  and  down  the  chromatic  scale,  rippling  helter- 
skelter,  and  then  she  dashed  suddenly  into  a  flippant  Italian 
arietta.  Bourland  had  heard  her  sing  it  before  ;  it  was  one 
of  those  popular  catches  which  a  short-skirted  soubrette 
sings  on  the  vaudeville  stage. 

u  Corta  lingua  nelle  donne 
Impossibile  di  trovar." 

She  supposed  herself  all  alone.  He,  outside,  awoke  from 
the  intoxication  of  the  narcotic  with  the  shock  of  a  cold 
plunge. 

"  You  are  an  enigma  to  me,"  he  muttered.  "  I  cannot, 
I  cannot  fathom  your  character."  When  he  went  into  the 
house,  he  avoided  the  room  in  which  she  was  playing. 

He  saw  her  next  when  she  came  into  the  supper  room. 


ABOUT   STARS   AND   METEORS  393 

She  entered,  humming  a  negro  melody,  and  sat  down,  after 
making  a  grand  salaam. 

"  Well,  runaway,  you  have  come  back  to  us,  have  you  ?  " 

He  was  in  a  sober  state  of  mind. 

"  I  haven't  been  far  away.  The  business  was  not  at  all 
joyous." 

There  was  no  one  else  in  the  room.  She  arose,  came 
toward  him,  and  bent  her  face  down  near  to  his.  "  You 
will  share  it  with  me  ?  Perhaps  I  can  help." 

"  It  is  past  help  now,"  he  replied  with  sad  decision. 

Remorse  was  pictured  on  her  countenance.  "  Forgive 
my  levity,  Henry.  Please  don't  judge  me  by  the  surface. 
I  ought  to  have  known  that  these  are  dark  days  for  you. 
It  is  very  selfish  of  me,  but  I've  been  in  a  thousand  humors 
to-day,  trying  to  chase  things  out  of  my  mind." 

Her  eyes  were  mute  ambassadors  of  a  thought  in  exile. 
Out  of  her  hair  a  perfume  fell  into  his  face,  tempting  it 
upward.  Just  then  the  approaching  steps  of  Chap  drove 
her  away  like  a  scared,  affectionate  pet  animal. 

Later  in  the  evening,  Bourland,  wishing  to  end  the 
uncertainty  of  their  future,  for  so  long  as  it  hung  in  sus 
pense  he  felt  the  force  of  temptation,  gathered  his  reluc 
tant  courage,  and  asked  her  to  accompany  him.  She  flung 
a  cloak  over  her  shoulders  and  followed  him  into  the  night. 

The  air,  though  the  mists  had  settled  in  the  valley,  was 
singularly  clear  in  the  upper  regions,  and  the  stars  shone 
with  unwonted  splendor.  The  Great  Bear  hung  low; 
Orion  was  moving  up  over  the  summit  of  Bald  Pate;  the 
Pleiades  were  glimmering  faintly  in  their  huddled  group, 
and  Saturn  burned  brilliantly  beside  a  lone  minor  star. 

They  passed  down  to  a  little  wooden  bridge  beneath 
which  a  brook  prattled  in  a  language  all  its  own.  There 
they  stopped,  and  leaned  over  the  railing,  watching  the 
dash  and  gurgle  of  the  water  among  the  rubble  stones. 
He  knew  not  how  to  begin.  He  feared  lest  he  might 
wound  her  feelings.  He  knew  that  after  the  past  few 
days,  he  was  himself  not  entirely  free.  Several  times  he 
was  on  the  point  of  speaking,  but  his  courage  oozed  away, 
his  resolution  took  flight,  the  apt  words  refused  to  come. 


394  HENBY   BOUELAND 

The  crucial  moment  was  delayed  by  her  inquiry  about 
the  afternoon.  He  told  her  of  his  efforts  to  maintain  the 
estate,  of  his  failure,  of  the  end  which  was  now  imminent. 
She  spoke  words  of  real  consolation,  and  he  felt  that  his 
sorrow  was  also  sincerely  hers. 

"  There  are  some  harsh  things  in  this  world  which  must 
be  borne,"  he  said  with  bitterness. 

"  I  know  that  only  too  well,"  she  replied. 

"We  seem  to  be  free,"  he  continued,  disregarding  her 
remark.  "  We  deceive  ourselves.  We  are  bound  by 
laws." 

She  made  no  answer.  Her  intuition  told  her  that  the 
iridescent  bubble  of  their  joy  was  about  to  be  shattered. 

"  Do  you  see  those  stars  so  high  above  us,  Elsie  ?  There 
is  not  one  but  must  keep  in  its  course,  and  move  according 
to  the  unchangeable  law  of  its  motion ;  each  one  has  a  des 
tiny  of  its  own,  each  one  a  path  in  its  solitary  orbit.  Do  you 
catch  my  meaning  ?  Human  beings  are  like  stars  in  some 
ways.  They  must  obey  the  laws  of  their  natures,  or  break 
with  themselves,  with  their  appointed  purposes  in  the 
world,  with  the  power  that  upholds  them." 

She  trembled  slightly  in  her  answer.  "It  may  be  so. 
It  may  be  so  for  men  with  great  ambitions,  great  aims. 
But  it  does  not  fit  my  case,  I  confess,  though  perhaps  with 
shame.  There  are  other  things  besides  stars  up  there  — 
things  of  very  little  account  in  the  great  plan.  There  are 
wandering  bodies,  aimless  meteors,  and  when  they  feel  the 
attraction  of  something  stronger  than  the  laws  of  their 
own  motion,  they  rush  out  of  their  courses."  She  spoke  the 
next  words  with  sadness.  "  I  think  I  am  like  one- of  those 
meteors,  one  of  those  homeless  wanderers." 

"  And  what  happens  to  them  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  they  whirl  about  just  like  the  rest,  until  they  feel 
a  great  throb ;  until  they  feel  the  presence  of  a  superior 
power  drawing  them  away.  They  fall  sometimes  with  a 
rush  and  a  flash,  and  are  burned  up."  Her  whole  nature 
began  to  kindle  as  she  proceeded.  uYou  are  a  man. 
You  don't  rightly  understand  a  woman  like  me.  You 
don't  conceive  the  glory,  only  a  woman  can,  of  being 


ABOUT   STAES  AND  METEORS  395 

burned,  absorbed,  destroyed  if  need  be,  by  something  more 
sublime  than  oneself." 

He  stood  amazed,  awed,  as  those  must  have  done  who 
viewed  from  afar  the  horrible  grandeur  of  burning  Rome. 
Yes,  he  was  a  man ;  he  did  not  understand  that  kind  of 
woman. 

"Why  do  you  shudder?"  she  inquired  calmly.  "It 
doesn't  take  much  courage.  Men  have  been  burned  for 
their  religion ;  and  women  for  religion  and  love.  No,  I 
see  more  clearly  you  have  not  understood  me.  People 
think  me  selfish ;  perhaps  it  is  true.  They  think  I  love 
idleness  and  pleasure ;  so  I  do.  But  the  greatest  pleasure 
I  can  conceive  is  utter  effacement,  utter  annihilation  of 
self — by  you.  All  these  other  things,  these  fripperies 
and  vanities,  I  cared  for  them  only  as  distractions,  to  fill  up 
the  time  when  you  were  not  near  me.  Ah,  my  dear  love, 
I  have  known  times  when  I  felt  you  cared  for  me  but  as  a 
plaything ;  and  even  in  those  moments  I  have  wished  you 
to  turn  upon  me,  to  beat  me,  to  bruise  me,  and  if  I  had 
afterward  possessed  the  strength,  I  should  have  crept  to 
your  feet,  and  caught  your  cruel  hands  and  kissed  them. 
Don't  you  perceive  that  I  really  have  something  of  a 
devotee  in  my  nature  ?  " 

"  And  why  all  this  for  me  ?  I  do  not  comprehend  it." 
He  was  well-nigh  speechless  before  this  revelation  of  devo 
tion. 

"  Because,"  she  replied  quickly,  "  other  men  are  but 
weak  fools.  I  can  make  them  jump  for  me,  like  jacks 
upon  a  stick.  But  you,  you  are  the  conqueror  and  the 
master.  I  feel  that  when  you  look  and  speak." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  are.  I  know  it;  my  confession  is  proof  of 
it.  There  is  another  reason  for  your  power,  and  there  lies 
the  tragedy  of  our  lives." 

He  waited  for  her  to  speak  again.  She  looked  him  pite- 
ously  in  the  eyes  and  said  with  a  voice  broken  with  an 
guish,  "Because  you  never  really  loved  me." 

He  protested  that  he  did,  more  than  anything  else  in  the 
world. 


396  HEKKY   BOURLAND 

That,  indeed,  gave  her  a  measure  of  joy  and  increased 
her  hunger ;  so  much  so,  that  in  her  eagerness  she  put  a 
fatal  question. 

"  Do  you  care  as  much  as  —  for  —  anything  —  in  — 
heaven  —  too?" 

"  No,"  he  answered  very  quietly,  "  it  is  she  who  stands 
between  us  now." 

She  grasped  the  wooden  railing  for  support.  Under 
neath  the  water  trickled  over  the  stones,  but  above  its 
incessant  noise  he  could  catch  the  spasms  of  contending 
emotions.  The  rage  of  jealousy  was  at  death's  grip  with 
a  woman's  passionate  love.  The  struggle  became  too 
fierce,  her  nerves  gave  way  under  the  strain,  and  she  broke 
forth  in  a  hysteria  of  laughter  and  sobs. 

"  It's  all  right,  Henry,  dear,  I'm  a  big,  big  baby.  I  don't 
understand  myself.  Oh !  what  mad  things  I  have  done  in 
my  life,  and  I've  led  men  on  wild  courses  just  for  the  ex 
citement.  I  needed  some  one  to  rule  me,  to  tell  me  what 
to  do.  I'm  like  a  boy's  top,  I  have  to  be  whipped  to  stand 
up  straight.  Sometimes  I  go  all  to  pieces,  just  like  this. 
But  you  bring  me  back  to  myself,  bring  out  all  the  good 
in  me,  make  me  tender  and  womanly.  You  broke  my 
heart  years  ago,  but  still  I  kept  thinking  the  day  would 
come,  but  it  never  will,  will  it,  dearest?"  At  the  last 
question,  like  a  drowning  man  seizing  another  in  the  fren 
zied  struggle  for  life,  she  threw  her  arms  about  his  neck 
and  clung  to  him  in  the  madness  of  despair.  He  held  her 
in  his  strong  arms  until  she  grew  more  calm,  and  when 
she  recovered,  she  was  much  ashamed. 

"  Can  you  forgive  me  for  what  I  have  done,  Elsie  ?  It 
is  all  my  fault.  I  feel  like  a  skulker,"  he  cried  out  in  self- 
accusation. 

"  No,  Henry,  don't  blame  yourself.  The  fault  was  all 
mine.  I  knew  what  I  was  doing.  I  did  it  with  my  eyes 
open.  I  knew  it  was  wrong.  I  tried  to  make  you  love 
me.  I  played  for  you  against  my  own  soul.  This  is  only 
justice  to-night." 

He  told  her  his  thoughts  of  the  past  months.  She  told 
him  hers.  He  showed  her  how  bitter,  how  difficult,  had 
been  his  last  decision. 


ABOUT   STARS  AND  METEORS  397 

"  You  are  right,"  she  replied  to  a  repetition  of  his  de 
mand  for  pardon.  "  Your  decision  was  right.  You  are 
wiser  than  I.  I  have  been  thinking,  too,  these  last  days. 
I  saw  how  it  would  all  end.  Suppose  we  had  gone  away, 
fled  from  the  law  into  some  obscure  place  in  the  West,  we 
could  not  have  fled  from  our  past  lives  or  from  ourselves. 
They  would  have  goaded  us,  turned  our  joy  to  gall.  You 
might  have  cared  for  me  at  first,  and  I  should  have  loved 
you  always ;  but  in  the  end  you  would  have  despised  me, 
turned  on  me,  and  cast  me  out.  I  saw  how  it  would  be. 
But  oh,  I  couldn't,  couldn't  give  you  up !  I  couldn't  give 
you  up.  I  see  it  all  now.  We  are  not  free.  We  must 
obey  the  laws,  not  only  man's  law,  but  the  law  within  our 
selves.  We  cannot  escape  their  after  vengeance." 

They  returned,  after  a  time,  into  the  house:  he,  in  humble, 
unheroic  mood ;  and  she,  bravely  sorrowful. 

At  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  as  she  was  about  to  leave  him, 
she  put  forth  her  hands  and  drew  his  lips  to  hers. 

"  Once  more  —  for  the  last  time,"  she  whispered.  Their 
lips  met  in  a  last  token  of  their  parted  lives,  and  during 
the  sadness  of  that  farewell  the  Recording  Angel  of  the 
sins  of  men  and  of  women  averted  his  eyes. 

A  look  came  upon  her  face  like  that  the  old  masters 
used  to  paint  upon  the  countenance  of  the  penitential 
Mary. 

"Good  night,  dearest." 

"  Good  night,  Elsie." 

The  last  he  saw  of  her  that  night  was  her  hand,  linger 
ing  upon  the  curve  of  the  balustrade,  as  she  passed  the  turn 
of  the  stairs. 

A  lamp  was  burning  in  the  parlor,  and  Bourland  went  in 
to  put  it  out.  As  he  stepped  over  the  threshold  of  the 
door  he  became  aware  that  he  was  again  in  the  presence 
and  the  company  of  his  own.  There  they  hung  still,  the 
portraits  of  those  stately  men ;  the  Knight  of  the  Golden 
Horse  Shoe  ;  the  friend  of  Washington  ;  the  soldier  who 
fell  at  the  battle  of  Camden ;  the  statesman  who  guided 
Virginia  through  the  stormy  days  of  Nullification;  the  uncle 
whose  body  lay  wrapped  in  the  flag  under  the  walls  of 


398  HENRY  BOURLAND 

Chapultepec ;  and  then,  over  the  mantel,  the  sad  face  of 
John  Bourland,  his  father. 

And  there,  too,  in  the  inidst  of  them,  was  the  living 
master  of  the  Hall,  soon  to  pass  out  of  its  possession,  and 
to  take  with  him  all  that  was  left  of  the  glory  of  the  house. 

Humbly  he  stretched  out  his  hands  before  those  mute 
witnesses ;  humbly  he  gazed  into  the  eyes  of  his  father's 
face  ;  humbly  he  murmured  in  his  despair :  — 

"  Father !  I  have  done  what  I  could,  but  I  have  failed." 

He  was  not  conscious  of  it,  so  great  was  his  anguish,  but 
he  stood  there  erect  —  erect  as  a  bar  of  iron. 


CHAPTER  L 

FAREWELL   TO   BOURLAND   HALL 

IT  was  a  marriage  without  church  bells  or  commotion. 
A  score  of  friends  gathered  in  the  parlor ;  a  wedding  march 
was  played  upon  the  well-worn  piano ;  the  bride  entered 
leaning  upon  her  brother's  arm.  The  ceremony  was  simple 
and  homely,  with  low,  scarcely  audible  responses  from  the 
lady,  and  firm,  manly  accents  from  the  groom.  It  was  not 
a  romantic  affair,  but  there  was  something  about  it  that 
was  beautifully  and  soothingly  human,  particularly  the 
damp  lashes  of  Eleanor,  the  frank  satisfaction  of  the 
middle-aged  lover,  and  the  sad  secrets  of  those  who  stood 
by  and  watched. 

The  ceremony  was  performed  at  eleven  o'clock,  and  the 
wedding  breakfast  followed  immediately.  Bourland  sat  at 
the  head  of  the  table,  the  bride  and  groom  at  his  right  and 
left  hands.  The  banquet  was  served  in  the  style  of  old 
Virginia  —  a  profusion  of  everything  enticing,  spiced  with 
an  abundance  of  the  beverages  that  cheer,  although  they 
may  sometimes  inebriate.  Indeed,  it  was  remarked  after 
ward  that  Major  Talcott,  who  was  present,  acted  rather 
thoughtlessly.  But,  poor  fellow,  he  wasn't  very  happy  on 
that  occasion,  and  all  he  did  was  to  deaden  his  sensibilities 
a  trifle.  At  any  rate,  he  never  forgot  his  manners,  for  he 
remained  a  true  Southern  gentleman  to  the  end.  And  this 
may  be  said,  too,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  Mr.  Hewitt  heard 
him  say  under  his  breath,  when,  at  the  conclusion  of  the 
ceremony  the  new-made  husband  gathered  in  his  armful  of 
treasure,  "  Damn  the  Yankees ;  they've  got  everything  !  " 

At  two  o'clock  the  carriage  drove  up  to  the  front  door 
to  take  the  bride  and  groom  down  to  the  Bray  ton  station. 

399 


400  HENRY  BOURLAND 

They  were  off  for  a  long  tour  into  far-away  California 
and  the  Yellowstone.  Eleanor  shuddered  at  the  prospect ; 
except  for  her  school  days  in  Baltimore,  she  had  never 
been  beyond  the  borders  of  the  state. 

The  company  came  out  on  the  veranda  to  see  them  start, 
and  as  Sam  whipped  up  the  horses,  it  began  to  rain  rice 
and  old  shoes.  Some  mischievous  person  had  tied  a  tin 
pail  to  the  rear  of  the  carriage,  and  when  it  began  to  rattle 
and  drag  on  the  gravel,  Sam  had  to  stop,  get  down  with 
his  rheumatism  and  cut  the  string,  while  the  crowd  jeered 
hilariously. 

Eleanor  thrust  her  head  out  of  the  carriage  when  they 
started  again,  and  in  their  last  view  of  her,  her  eyes  were 
lingering  upon  the  dear  old  home,  and  her  hand  was  wav 
ing  farewell  with  a  handkerchief  not  altogether  dry. 

Later  the  time  came  for  Elsie's  departure.  Bourland 
drove  her  down  to  the  railroad  station  to  take  the  Rich 
mond  train.  She  went  away  bravely,  telling  her  friend 
with  deep  sincerity  that  she  should  always  think  of  him 
with  joy.  He  pressed  her  hands  firmly,  but  at  the  end 
could  find  voice  only  to  say  "  Good-by." 

He  returned  to  the  Hall.  The  company  had  broken  up 
and  had  gone  their  several  ways.  Only  himself  and  Chap 
and  two  or  three  negroes  were  left. 

He  felt  indescribably  lonely.  His  emotions  can  be 
appreciated  best,  perhaps,  by  some  weather-beaten  sea 
captain  about  to  desert  his  sinking  ship,  —  a  stout,  trim 
craft,  the  chief  among  all  his  joys,  which  he  had  com 
manded  and  sailed  for  decades,  but  which  was  now  doomed 
to  destruction,  and  left  no  hope  except  escape  with  his  life. 
The  boats  have  put  off,  the  crew  are  safe,  and  he  and  his 
little  mate  are  lingering  to  take  the  last  leave. 

Chap,  who  hitherto  had  slept  in  an  adjoining  room,  crept 
that  night  into  his  father's  bed.  It  was  Bourland  who  got 
the  greater  consolation  from  the  companionship,  and  he 
talked  for  comfort's  sake,  and  would  not  let  the  boy  go  to 
sleep  until  he  became  drowsy  himself. 

The  next  morning  Bourland  began  to  pack  some  of  the 
movables,  which  he  intended  to  send  down  to  Brayton  for 


FAREWELL  TO   BOURLAND   HALL  401 

storage  until  he  could  arrange  for  their  permanent  destina 
tion.  Most  of  them  in  time  would  find  a  place  in  Eleanor's 
new  home.  Chap  helped,  or  tried  to  do  so,  although  he 
was  frequently  in  the  way.  But  Bourland  wanted  the 
child  near  him.  He  was  hard  at  work,  in  his  shirt  sleeves, 
when  three  loud  raps  resounded  on  the  front  door. 

He  stopped,  surprised.  "  Run  down,  Chap,  and  see  who 
it  is,"  he  said. 

Randall  came  up  in  a  moment. 

"  It's  a  man  and  a  woman.  He  said  he  came  to  look 
over  the  house." 

"  What's  his  name  ?  " 

"  He  said  no  name  was  necessary.  I  asked  them  to  go 
into  the  parlor." 

A  dryness  came  into  Bourland's  throat.  He  knew  who 
it  was.  Parker  had  come,  before  he  left  the  Hall,  to  fulfil 
his  promise.  But  Bourland  had  no  fear  of  his  taunts ;  he 
was  above  the  reach  of  their  sting. 

He  washed  his  hands,  put  on  clean  linen,  brushed  his 
hair,  arranged  his  cravat  neatly,  drew  on  his  best  coat, 
a  long  frock  of  black  broadcloth,  and  went  downstairs. 

Through  the  doorway  he  saw  Parker,  his  hat  on  his 
head,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  looking  at  the  family  por 
traits.  His  wife  was  seated  in  the  far  corner  of  the  room, 
in  the  most  uncomfortable  of  the  chairs. 

"Good  morning,"  said  Bourland,  bowing  politely,  first 
to  the  lady,  then  to  the  man. 

There  they  stood  face  to  face,  representatives  of  the  best 
of  the  South,  the  worst  of  the  North. 

"  Morning,"  said  Parker,  without  withdrawing  his  hands. 
"  I  came  up  to  have  a  look  at  the  place.  I  bought  it  in, 
as  you  probably  know,  and  I  want  to  see  if  it's  a  very 
bad  bargain.  It's  been  some  time  since  I  was  here,  and 
then,  you  recollect,  I  didn't  stay  long  enough  to  take 
notes."  There  was  a  sour  curve  in  his  mouth.  "  I've 
brought  my  wife  along,"  he  added,  without  looking  at 
her. 

"  I  hope  we  don't  disturb  you,"  the  lady  began  timor 
ously. 


402  HENEY   BOUELAND 

44  Not  at  all,  madam,  I  assure  you,"  replied  Bourland, 
turning  his  attention  to  her. 

44 1  wanted  to  wait  awhile,"  she  continued,  with  a  fear- 
fulness  of  tone,  44but  William  was  bent  on  coming  now. 
He  wants  to  take  some  measurements,  and  order  some 
things." 

44  Yes,"  said  Parker,  dryly.  44 1  want  some  new  things 
sent  down  from  New  York.  I  guess  you'll  gather  up  this 
truck  pretty  clean." 

44 1  beg  your  pardon,"  put  in  Bourland,  quickly,  ignor 
ing  his  boorishness.  44  Won't  you  have  a  seat?  Excuse 
me  for  not  asking  you  to  sit  down  before." 

44 1  suppose  I  might  as  well,  seeing  the  house  is  mine," 
returned  Parker,  taking  a  chair  and  putting  his  hat  on 
the  floor  beside  it. 

Bourland  turned  again  to  the  lady.  44  You  must  be 
cold  after  the  ride.  It  is  quite  chilly  this  morning." 

She  was  a  decent  body,  with  thin  face  and  peaked  nose, 
dressed  in  dark  stuff  that  was  old  but  clean.  Her  deport 
ment  showed  that  she  had  long  been  drilled  into  sub 
jection  and  resignation,  yet  that  she  had  not  lost  her 
respectability.  In  fact,  in  her  way,  she  was  refined. 

44  Can  I  not  offer  you  some  refreshment  ? "  he  asked, 
addressing  both  this  time.  44  Madam,  will  you  not  have 
a  glass  of  wine  to  take  off  the  chill  of  the  ride  ?  "  He 
rose  and  made  a  deferential  bend.  44  Here,  Chap,"  he 
called  at  the  door ;  44  go  get  some  wine  and  glasses." 

44  None  for  me,"  said  Parker,  brusquely.  44 1  never  drink. 
I'm  a  teetotaler." 

44  Perhaps  your  wife  may  be  prevailed  upon  to  take  a 
little." 

When  Chap  came,  bringing  the  tray,  she  demurred  at 
first.  She  really  didn't  drink  wine,  though  the  doctor  had 
advised  her  to  take  it  for  her  health.  The  golden  liquid 
tempted  her,  however,  and  she  was  finally  induced  to 
accept.  He  offered  her  the  glass  as  he  would  have  done 
it  to  the  greatest  lady  in  the  land,  and  as  he  raised  his  own, 
he  bowed  again  and  said,  44  Permit  me  to  drink  to  the  new 
mistress  of  the  Hall." 


FAREWELL   TO   BOUKLAND   HALL  403 

He  was  passing,  yes,  he  was  passing  to  make  way  for 
others ;  but  he  was  going  with  the  dignity  and  the  stateli- 
ness  of  one  long  used  to  royal  purple. 

"  William,"  said  his  wife,  after  a  pause,  "  you  might  speak 
of  —  what  —  we  talked  about  coming  up." 

"  Well,  yes,  I  suppose  I  might,"  he  drawled.  "  I  suppose 
you  are  short  of  cash,  Bourland,  and  a  snug  sum  would 
come  in  handy  to  you  just  now.  You  don't  want  to  cart 
away  all  this  stuff  in  the  house.  Suppose  you  put  a  price 
on  it.  Set  your  own  figures.  I  won't  bargain  hard  with  a 
man  who  is  down  on  his  luck."  Parker  evidently  meant 
to  do  so,  but  he  could  not  altogether  suppress  a  man-in-the- 
moon's  grin  of  triumph. 

His  wife  saw  how  deeply  the  insult  had  struck  home, 
and  she  hastened  to  repair  the  injury. 

"  We  could  take  some  of  your  things,  sir.  Indeed,  we 
should  feel  honored  to  have  them." 

But  Parker  had  stung  him  too  virulently,  and  scorn 
struggled  with  his  impassive  courtesy,  as  he  faced  the  man. 

"  That  was  very  thoughtful  of  you,  Mr.  Parker,"  he 
replied,  still  retaining  his  suavity  amid  the  scorn.  "Most 
of  the  articles  I  shall  send  to  my  sister.  The  rest  I  purpose 
to  give  to  the  negroes.  What  they  do  not  want,  you  are 
welcome  to,  for  nothing." 

Parker  snarled  an  angry  reply  in  which  he  used  the  word 
"beggar,"  but  Bourland  paid  no  attention  to  his  words. 
He  rose  again  and  looked  at  the  wife. 

"  Pardon  me,  madam.  I  believe  you  wanted  to  see  the 
house.  Permit  me  to  conduct  you  over  it.  It  is  a  historic 
old  place,  and  I  may  be  able  to  tell  you  some  things  that 
will  interest  you.  We  can  leave  Mr.  Parker  down  here  to 
make  his  measurements." 

Parker,  who  had  come  with  a  purpose  and  a  plan,  was 
not  able  to  control  the  situation  at  all.  The  moon-faced 
grin  gave  place  to  a  scowl,  as  Bourland  motioned  for  the 
lady  to  pass  out  the  door,  and  led  the  way  upstairs. 

He  took  her,  one  by  one,  through  the  hallways  and  rooms, 
pointing  out  the  advantages  of  each.  One  room  had  the 
splendid  view ;  this  got  the  morning,  another  the  afternoon 


404  HENRY  BOURLAKD 

sun  ;  the  south  rooms  were  warm  in  winter,  and  the  oppo 
site  ones  were  invariably  cool  even  in  August,  owing  to  the 
fact  that  they  were  always  in  shadow.  He  showed  her 
what  a  woman  regards  as  the  greatest  merit  of  a  house,  the 
capacious  closets,  and  the  large  cedar  chests,  entertaining 
her,  in  the  meantime,  with  those  pleasantries  of  comment 
and  reminiscence  which  only  the  natural-born  conversa 
tionalist  can  command. 

When  they  came  downstairs  again,  Parker  was  outside, 
seated  in  his  carriage,  fretting  and  fuming  at  his  wife's 
delay. 

"What  were  you  fussing  up  there  so  long  for?"  he 
asked  testily.  "  You  were  long  enough  to  see  a  dozen 
houses.  Come,  get  in  here.  Jenny  wants  her  oats." 

He  made  no  motion  to  help  her  in,  but  Bouiiand  assisted 
her  to  the  seat.  She  was  very  much  confused,  ashamed. 

"  Thank  you  very  much  for  your  kindness,  sir,"  she  said 
with  real  gratitude.  "  When  we  get  set  to  rights,  I  wish 
you  would  come  see  us  sometime." 

"  Thank  you,  madam.  It  would  be  a  great  pleasure,  I 
assure  you.  I  bid  you  good  day."  He  bowed  pleasantly. 

"Get  up,  Jenny,"  said  Parker  to  his  horse,  and  he 
slashed  her  viciously  with  the  whip  and  drove  off. 

For  the  next  three  days  Bourland  was  busy  sending 
furniture  and  boxes  down  to  Brayton  to  await  there  his 
sister's  orders.  Anderson's  iron  projects  had  come  to 
realization,  and  he  planned  to  make  his  home  at  Buena 
Vista,  in  the  southwestern  part  of  the  state.  This  was  a 
great  source  of  satisfaction  to  Eleanor,  who  did  not  desire 
to  go  north  among  strangers. 

By  evening  on  the  third  day  the  Hall  was  almost  empty. 
And  when,  late  at  night,  Bourland  took  the  lamp  in  one 
hand,  and  Chap  by  the  other,  and  went  upstairs  to  the  bed 
that  was  left  for  their  last  night's  rest,  the  sound  of  his  steps 
on  the  bare  floors  made  echoes  that  rang  back  from  all  the 
dismantled  rooms,  echoes  that  lingered  long  in  his  own 
empty  heart. 

He  awoke  several  times  during  the  night,  and  then  fell 
into  deep  slumber.  When  his  eyes  opened  again,  it  was 
well  into  the  morning. 


FAREWELL   TO   BOURLAND   HALL  405 

Shortly  after  noon  everything  was  ready  for  the  depar 
ture.  Black  Sam  and  his  wife  were  to  leave  the  house  and 
go  live  in  a  cabin  on  a  little  patch  by  the  edge  of  the  slop 
ing  woodland.  This  land,  though  practically  valueless, 
Bouiiand  still  held,  and  he  gave  it  rent  free  only  too  gladly 
to  the  last  loyal  black. 

"  Watch  over  the  Hall,  Sam,"  said  Bouiiand,  thrusting 
the  key  in  the  front-door  lock.  "  Don't  forget  that  it  was 
once  ours." 

"  Ya-as,  marster,  I'll  do  dat.  I'll  watch  it.  'Twaz  our'n 
onct,  wuzzent  it?  Dar's  no  denyin'  ob  dat." 

Bourland  turned  the  key,  and  the  lock  clicked  into  its 
mortise. 

There  was  a  brazen  knocker  on  the  door,  a  lion's  head, 
holding  a  ring  in  its  jaws.  Randall  reached  up  and  gave 
one  last  rap.  They  could  hear  the  sound  echo  and  fill  the 
empty  house. 

"  Hush,  Chap,"  said  his  father.     "  Let  them  sleep." 

He  made  a  sad  pilgrimage  to  the  sacred  corner  where 
only  the  slabs  remained  as  a  memorial  of  the  family.  The 
mist  came  into  his  eyes  as  he  stood  by  the  graves  of  his  father, 
his  mother,  his  wife,  and  took  a  last  farewell,  a  mist  that 
almost  gathered  into  rain. 

He  went  back  to  where  the  carriage  was  waiting,  and 
while  Chap  began  to  throw  gravel  stones  at  an  old  tree 
stump,  Bourland  took  one  final,  lingering  look  at  the  home 
of  his  boyhood,  the  home  of  his  life.  He  was  reluctant  to 
turn  away  and  let  the  sight  of  the  dear  old  place  pass 
away  from  before  his  eyes. 

Randall  stopped  throwing  stones  and  came  up  beside  his 
father. 

"  We  are  coming  back  again,  some  day,  aren't  we, 
Dad?" 

He  got  no  answer  for  a  full  minute.  Bourland's  spirit 
had  slipped  back  into  the  past. 

"What's  that,  Chap?  Did  you  say  something?"  said 
his  father,  coming  back  into  present  time. 

"I  asked  if  we  shouldn't  be  here  again  some  day? 
Won't  we?" 


406  HENRY  BOURLAND 

"  Perhaps  so,  boy.  We  may  come  back  to  take  a  look 
at  it.  But  it  won't  be  the  same  to  us." 

They  climbed  into  the  carriage.  It  was  no  longer  theirs. 
Together  with  the  horses,  it  had  been  sold,  and  was  to  be 
delivered  to  the  new  owner  that  afternoon. 

Black  Sam  took  out  his  whip,  but  only  a  single  word 
was  needed  to  put  the  horses  in  motion.  They  saw  Sarah, 
Sam's  wife,  standing  on  the  porch  waving  her  red  ban 
danna,  the  sign  of  her  servitude.  Then  the  horses  trotted 
through  the  stone  gateway,  dashed  into  the  hushed  peace 
of  the  long  arcade,  and  bore  the  master  down  the  valley. 

And  this  was  the  passing  of  the  cavalier. 


EPILOGUE 


TWENTY  years  later,  one  autumn  afternoon,  an  elderly  man, 
leading  a  little  boy  by  the  hand,  might  have  been  seen  walking 
along  one  of  the  streets  of  Lexington.  His  hair  is  silken  white, 
his  tall  figure  slightly  bent,  but  a  serenity  upon  his  face  suggests 
a  life  closing  in  the  beauty  of  tempered  sunshine. 

They  enter  the  campus  of  the  University,  taking  the  path 
toward  the  chapel,  just  as  a  college  student  comes  in  the  oppo 
site  direction. 

"  Good  afternoon,  professor,"  says  the  student,  stopping  and 
removing  his  hat ;  and  then,  stooping  down  to  the  child,  he  adds, 
"This,  I  presume,  is  your  son's  boy  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir !  and  he's  his  grandfather's  boy,  too,"  answers  the 
elder,  with  the  fond  pride  of  a  grandparent.  "  Give  the  gentle 
man  your  hand,  Harry.  Have  you  forgotten  your  manners, 
sir  ?  "  He  administers  an  affectionate  rebuke  on  the  youngster's 
shoulder  with  the  tip  of  his  cane.  "  I'm  taking  him  up  to  the 
mausoleum,"  he  continues  to  the  other.  "  It  is  such  a  beauti 
ful  thing  for  a  man  to  have  among  the  earliest  memories  of 
his  childhood." 

They  pass  on  and  a  moment  later  enter  the  chapel.  It  is 
deserted  at  that  hour,  and  their  steps  unconsciously  soften  as 
they  break  upon  the  stillness  of  the  interior.  They  go  up  the 
main  aisle  to  the  chancel,  ascend  the  steps  of  the  pulpit,  and 
find,  facing  them,  an  arched  opening  in  the  wall  barred  by  an 
iron  grating. 

Within,  dimly  illumined  by  a  shaft  of  pale  light,  is  a  plain, 
massive  sarcophagus.  Dressed  in  his  heavy  army  coat,  his 
sword  close  to  his  side,  the  carven  figure  of  a  soldier  reposes 
upon  the  cold  immobility  of  the  marble.  The  face  is  placid 
beyond  the  reach  of  any  earthly  disquietude;  he  lies  there 
in  state  upon  a  monument  of  worldly  honor  and  eternal  peace. 

The  man  stands  in  reverent  attitude  as  before  a  shrine,  while 
the  boy,  innocently  restive  and  curious,  climbs  up  on  the  iron 
grating. 

407 


408  HENEY   BOUKLAND 

"  Get  down,  Harry,"  says  the  elder,  in  a  subdued  voice. 

"  Who  is  it,  grandpa  ?  "  The  child's  treble  ranges  through 
the  empty  air,  and  breaks  into  the  resonance  of  many  echoes. 

"  It  is  the  tomb  of  General  Lee,  my  boy.'7  The  old  man  stoops 
and  raises  him  up  so  that  he  may  look  down  upon  the  graven 
features,  adding  softly,  "He  was  one  of  God's  gentlemen.'7 

Then  the  living  veteran  tells  him  how  the  dead  general  was 
once  the  inspiring  commander  of  devoted  armies  in  a  long  and 
bitter  war ;  how  his  men  laid  down  their  lives  for  their  homes 
and  their  fathers'  principles ;  and  how,  after  the  war  was  over, 
he  retired  quietly  to  civic  life  and  became  the  president  of  that 
college,  where  the  child's  grandfather  had  been  a  teacher  for 
so  many  years,  and  where  his  father  had  gone  to  school.  "  He 
was  a  noble  man,  Harry,"  he  says  in  closing,  "because  he  for 
got  himself  and  fought  for  his  people.  He  was  one  of  our 
greatest  Americans." 

For  some  time  they  stand,  regarding  this  tribute  of  love 
and  reverence  to  him  whose  body  lies  beneath,  but  whose 
pure  soul  has  long  since  gone  fearlessly  to  the  judgment  of 
the  Maker. 

They  turn  to  leave  and  pass  down  the  aisle,  the  patter  of 
the  little  fellow's  short  steps  keeping  ill  time  with  the  stride 
of  the  man.  They  close  the  door,  and  the  echoes  die  away  in 
the  hush  of  the  imperishable  silence. 

Halfway  home  the  child  begins  to  lag,  and  finally  stops. 

"  I'm  so  tired,  grandpa." 

The  man  takes  him  in  his  arms  and  carries  him,  talking 
cheerily.  But  before  he  reaches  the  house  he  is  noticeably 
wearied  by  the  weight  of  the  burden. 

At  last  he  reaches  the  gate.  The  door  of  the  house  opens, 
a  young  woman  comes  out,  and  rushes  down  the  steps. 

"  You  ought  not  to  carry  that  big  boy,  father,"  she  protests. 

"  The  exercise  will  do  me  good,  Mary,"  he  answers,  speaking 
with  an  affection  as  tender  as  if  she  were  the  daughter  of  his 
own  blood. 

It  has  now  grown  into  the  dusk.  There  is  an  orange  radiance 
in  the  west,  and  the  day  shimmers  as  it  dies. 

She  takes  them  both  by  the  hand,  and  leads  them  into  the 
house.  She  pushes  a  great  easy-chair  before  the  crackling  fire, 
for  the  season,  at  evening,  has  become  chilly.  She  brings  his 
roomy  house  coat  and  his  slippers ;  she  kneels  and  helps  him 
off  with  his  stiff,  tired  boots ;  and  when  she  has  arranged  the 


EPILOGUE  409 

cushions  and  ministered  in  every  way  to  his  comfort,  she  bends 
over  and  kisses  his  forehead. 

"Come  with  me,  Harry,"  she  says;  "let  grandpa  take  a 
little  nap." 

"  Don't  take  him  away.  Let  him  stay  here,'7  the  man  pleads, 
as  if  for  a  comrade. 

So  she  leaves  them  alone. 

The  youngster  climbs  up  on  his  grandfather's  knee,  and 
shakes  his  curls  over  his  coat  sleeve ;  he  nestles  close,  putting 
his  hand  into  the  vest  pocket,  in  search  of  the  customary  tidbit 
of  mint,  while  the  elder  regrets  that  the  supply  is  exhausted 
and,  to  soothe  the  disappointment,  begins  to  sing  some  old- 
fashioned  juvenile  rhymes  ;  and  later,  following  his  own  mood, 
he  slips  into  a  low  melody  of  the  church,  into  the  music  of  that 
solemn  hymn  which  is  sung  during  the  recessional :  — 

"  Now  the  day  is  over, 

Night  is  drawing  nigh  ; 
Shadows  of  the  evening 
Steal  across  the  sky." 

The  child  falls  asleep,  the  old  man  hugging  him  close  as  a 
miser  his  bag  of  gold.  His  own  voice  grows  fainter  as  the  fire 
induces  a  languor ;  his  head  begins  to  droop  and  drowse.  He, 
too,  is  asleep. 

Outside  there  is  the  noise  of  an  opening  door,  the  boisterous 
voice  of  a  man,  and  a  wife's  greeting. 

The  fire  continues  to  cast  its  warmth  and  glow  into  the 
room,  illumining  the  chubby  cheeks  of  the  boy  and  the  paler 
countenance  of  the  aged  man.  They  slumber  on,  secure  in  that 
home  of  family  affection  and  guardian  love,  the  smile  of  pleas 
ant  thoughts  upon  their  faces.  Perchance  they  are  dreaming. 

Dream  on,  old  soldier  of  the  lost  cause.  We  would  keep  you 
with  us  as  long  as  we  may.  But  the  hour  of  your  going,  despite 
cur  loving  solicitude,  will  soon  be  at  hand.  Dream  on,  venerable 
cavalier,  and  if  dreams  will  brighten  the  last  of  your  heroic 
days,  let  them  gloat  fondly  over  the  years  that  have  been. 
Dream  on,  dear  child  of  innocence,  you  who  came  too  late  for 
the  struggle  and  the  full  sorrow ;  you,  with  the  great  promise 
of  the  century  before  you,  and  the  sincere  devotion  of  your 
sires  behind  you ;  dream  on,  sweet  child,  of  the  years  to  be. 


THE  HERITAGE  OF  UNREST 


BY 

GWENDOLEN    OVERTON 
Cloth.     I2mo.     $1.50 


A  novel  of  the  army  on  the  frontier  during  the  time  of  the  Indian 
outbreaks  under  Geronimo  and  others  in  the  late  seventies.  His 
torically  the  book  is  valuable  —  though  this  is  nearly  forgotten  in 
its  interest  —  as  a  picture  of  scenes  that  can  never  be  repeated ;  a 
book  which  American  social  literature  could  ill  afford  to  lose  — 
while  it  is  also  an  absorbing  love  story. 


"A  picture  of  the  great  West  — the  West  of  the  days  of  the 
Apache  raids  —  clear  and  vivid."  —  Baltimore  Sun. 

"'The  Heritage  of  Unrest'  is  a  remarkable  book,  and  in  all 
respects  it  is  an  interesting  departure  from  the  current  line  of 
fiction.  It  is  a  story  of  American  army  life  fully  matching  the 
frontier  sketches  of  Owen  Wister,  and  told  with  such  touches  of 
offhand  colloquialism,  now  and  again,  as  might  mark  the  work  of  a 
Yankee  Kipling."  —  Ntw  York  World. 

"In  every  respect  —  character,  plot,  style,  scenes,  descriptions., 
and  personages  —  the  book  is  unconventional  .  .  .  refreshing." 

—  Boston  Herald. 

THE  MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

66  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK 


THE  MAKING  OF  CHRISTOPHER 
FERRINGHAM 

BY 

BEULAH    MARIE    DIX 

Author  of  "Hugh   Gwyeth,"  "Soldier  Rigdale"  etc. 

Cloth.     i2mo.     $1.50 


"  It  bids  fair  to  be  widely  enjoyed  for  its  remarkable  vividness, 
the  sweep  of  its  narrative,  and  its  surprising  variety  of  interest.  It 
is  somewhat  unlike  other  recent  historical  romances.  The  narrative 
is  never  for  a  moment  interrupted  for  the  sake  of  local  color.  .  .  . 
Yet,  in  few,  if  any,  recent  historical  narratives  have  we  had  so  vivid 
and  memorable  or  so  realistic  a  picture  of  the  daily  life  of  a  given 
community  in  a  past  age.  It  may  fairly  be  questioned  if  there  can 
be  found  anywhere  else  in  literature  so  well  rounded,  so  persuasive, 
and  so  forcible  a  portrayal  of  a  typical  Puritan  community  as  that 
which  we  have  in  the  first  half  of  this  book."  —  The  Boston  Herald. 

"In  brilliancy,  exciting  interest,  and  verisimilitude,  'The  Making 
of  Christopher  Ferringham '  is  one  of  the  best  of  the  semi-historical 
novels  of  the  day,  the  rival  of  l  Richard  Carvel '  and  <  To  Have  and 
to  Hold,'  and  not  unworthy  of  comparison  with  Maurice  Hewlett's 
best."  —  The  Boston  Advertiser. 

"  This  vigorous  and  compact  tale  bristles  with  stirring  adventure 
by  land  and  sea :  it  is  graphic ;  its  flights  and  sea-faring  ventures 
are  portrayed  with  no  uncertain  hand,  and  yet  the  simple  love  story 
which  threads  the  harsher  incidents  into  natural  sequences  is  told 
with  a  winning  sweetness."  —  Chicago  Record. 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

66  FIFTH   AVENUE,   NEW   YORK 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 

Fine  schedule:  25  cents  on  first  day  overdue 

50  cents  on  fourth  day  overdue 
One  dollar  on  seventh  day  overdue. 


AUG8519693 
IN  STACKS 


II 


AUG  20  '69 


ocr 


fri  .  ACKS 
SEP  27ly69 


LD  21-100m-12,'46(A2012sl6)4120 


991261 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


lit 


